Mindfulness Matters

Having spent so much time cutting away bramble briars that have tangled themselves around the clematis, the pots of long abandoned gardening attempts, anything that settled in our yard for more than a week without being picked up - I feel worthy of a sword and Steed and a Princess to kiss. I’ll settle for Spook. Between briars and grease in my kitchen, there was scant time for creativity. But I followed my natural compulsions and they were saying that this is where I needed to start. Once my brain was briar and grease free, I picked up a sketchbook.

Instead of self consciously trying to make a picture, I just enjoyed the simple process.

When I was wee, I had an obsession with pressing flowers. It occupied hours of my time gathering and pressing - and hours of me watching over my tiny press willing it to be time for me to reveal the results! I never did anything with the results. I just gathered them.

I’ve found a new obsession. Eco printing. But I do have a purpose for the results. My idea is to gather flora and fauna from each graveyard that I’m recreating on paper, using ink, collage - mixed media, and eco printing the plants onto paper. Gather stories from the graveyards and build layers. Learning to eco printing is part of this process. In the past I’ve been in a hurry for results and then simply given up.

But I’m a new me!!! Well, I’m the old me, with thoughtful, mindful patience.

I’ve had mixed results from my printing and have kept on going back to research to understand what I need to do to get the results I want. Not falling at the first hurdle is a new concept for me.

Very delicate ghost prints weren’t what I was looking for but they can play a role. I was looking for something stronger.

A summer household in Lochaber tends to be a busy place. People visit for summer and I have to say, we’ve had the bestest visitors. My capacity to multitask has grown exponentially and an ability to now compartmentalise and find time for myself has worked well. However, trying not to appear like I’m involved in witchery, has been harder to explain.

It has to be said that boiling grampa’s book was less than successful…..don’t worry, there are many more of them and no one wants them. Not even Leakey’s Bookstore in Inverness. Maybe he’ll want this one now!!!!

There is much to learn about eco printing. Mordants, modifiers natural dyes, rust water, vinegar and how they interact with each other. Time and again I’ve gone back to the research.

For the most part, the reveal is way more exciting than my pressed flowers. But there have been lots of disappointing reveals so I researched ways to improve the disappointments.

One method was an indigo dye vat. I bought some of the ‘stuff’.

5mg indigo dye in water heated to 50 degrees. Done. 10mg soda ash added in. Done. 15mg fructose. Hmmm. Is honey fructose enough, I asked! Absolutely. But my honey had crystallised in its plastic bottle so I put it in the microwave. That should have been for about 10 secs.

I have been incredibly mindful of my movements since being on ADD medication and find that I move more carefully and efficiently and achieve things more quickly. The echo of my mothers voice saying “less haste, more speed” follows me everywhere. I was ALWAYS hash-bash.

But the old me resurfaced in a moment of lapsed mindfulness. I’d jabbed the timer on the microwave about 4 times, taking the time to 2 mins. Without thinking, and with one eye on my witches brew on the stove top, I reached in and grabbed the honey pot. The bottle had shrunk and the boiling liquid was right to the brim. A large dollop of molten honey landed on my hand. That is quite a sore thing. Close to the sink, I was able to wash it off quickly but got bored after 10 mins of cold water so strapped a bag of frozen berries to my hand which I kept turning over to get a cold spot. I had a dye vat to make, after all.

By the end of the evening I had quite a large blister and dressed it carefully so that it wouldn’t burst. My daughter suggested that it was time to move on to going out sketching and let the dyeing go for a while.

So the next day I spent a very contented 2 hours in the old Glen Nevis graveyard, flicking crawling ticks off my legs, crawling about and rubbing paint into my sketchbook with my bandaged hand. (If anyone has stories of the graveyard for my layering process, do tell.)

Next day I it was back to the living with 7 toilets to clean before breakfast. But when we took off the bandage we discovered that 2 days later, the blister was a bit bigger…

And my hand a bit swollen. So off to A&E I went where I was carefully attended to by the minor burns nurse. “It is very important to keep this scrupulously clean at all times.” She said, as I pictured myself crawling about the dead matter and scrubbing toilets.

2 days later it was redressed and healing well, she said….

And the dye vat to sort my failed prints didn’t work - not even a tiny bit.

However. I’m not done yet. I’m working on other methods in smaller pots, that look less witchy. I will nail this yet! And now back to mindful movements.

Sketches above are from my crawls in the Glen Nevis graveyard. Much more time to be spent there yet.

Serving Time. Part 4

“This is an investment in US, Spook!!” I declared, with eyes like saucers in a state of happy excitement.  “I’m taking you with me on this journey!”

I wasn’t quite sure why he wasn’t as excited as me.  But then he’s not on the drugs.  And this was around teatime on the first day, as he arrived home from work – so not really on the same page.

His eyes scanned the kitchen.  Tidy.  Space. Unusual. Unlikely to last.

For the last 2 years I have waited until 5pm so that I can sit down and have a glass of white wine and a bowl of crisps.  This signifies the end of a day when I no longer must ponder all the things I was going to get done and didn’t.  Now it’s too late, so I don’t have to ponder any longer.  The irritating thing was that I had to make Spook a meal even though I didn’t really need one because I was full of crisps. I specifically remember 35 years ago, cooking his tea and thinking ‘I won’t have to do this every day for the rest of my life, will I?’

Turns out yes, 35 years and still simmering with bouts of resentment.

One tiny little capsule and I’ve turned into a delight (in my personal view.) I spent the whole of the first day happily absorbed in tidying my kitchen.  26 years in this house and every nook and cranny is stuffed with mostly nothing of importance.  We operate out of the front of each cupboard or drawer.  There’s no space to put anything else, so there is spillage. Any tidy up lasts a very short time because it’s superficial.

Suddenly I have developed a capacity to focus on one small detail to start me off, rather than the whole room.  I start there and I move methodically and smoothly through the room, one drawer and cupboard at time.  Things dawn on me.  The baking cupboard was never meant to be a baking cupboard.  It’s a high, deep corner cupboard and everything is too small and finnicky and that’s why you can’t find anything.  Fresh items are squeezed in on top of open packets spilling out. Spillage is a theme here. I took big items from a low cupboard which had a space round a corner that couldn’t be viewed and I put those big items in the baking cupboard.  Now I can see my slow cooker, my oven dishes and other items that I had to blindly flail about to find, whilst worrying about catching a stray mouse by mistake. This is the kind of cupboard where they lurk, feeling safe. It took a wee capsule for me to see this. Little by little I emptied things out onto the kitchen counters and planned where the best place was for them to go. I didn’t get fed up or bored or tired. I was just absorbed.  And happy. And felt empowered because now I can organise my own spaces and don’t need friends to do it for me and watch me mess it all up again. I find myself learning things I was meant to learn in girlhood. Like washing my coffee and milk pot after I’ve drunk my coffee. Daily, I have to clean my coffee and milk pot before I can make my coffee, because they are still steeping at the sink. Now, without any hesitation, I wash up after breakfast.  This is not hard and doesn’t take long.  But I didn’t do it prior to taking my little capsule. I straighten pictures, dust(!!!!) put things away instinctively (and now they have a place to go.) I’ve thrown away so many things that are broken or incomplete, that no one would really believe I’d seen fit to keep in the first place.

My grown children watch in wonder.  My daughter now has the belief that this will last.  So do I.  My son headed off for a 4 month trip and said he couldn’t wait to see how the place looks when he gets home.  Because he believes this energy and focus will continue.  And so do I.  Every day I wake up, I wonder, ‘what will I achieve today?’  And I know that I will achieve things.  You have to live with me or be very close to me, to understand the extent of the chaos that lurks within the drawers and cupboards, and the reality of how little gets done on any given day. And the effect that it has on my crowded brain. It affects us all who live here and we had all become resigned to it. The creativity that I have been enjoying here, is the creation of space and therefore calmness in my life. I haven’t yet felt compelled to paint, but that doesn’t worry me.  I did tidy my studio to a satisfying state so that it’s ready for when I am ready. I stopped tidying every now and then because I felt compelled to write this down. That clears a space in my head and if you happen to live in Fort William and meet me in the street, the chances are that I will not need to tell you everything at once.  I might not need to tell you anything at all.

The clarity of my thought process is a source of pleasure for me.  My ear worm for the first week was “I can see clearly now the rain has gone.  I see all obstacles disappear.” I wonder if Johnny Nash found what I found.

Spook comes home to a busy, loving wife, who has cooked his tea with no clear sign of any resentment (this very traditional picture evolves from him being very good at fixing everything and having to endlessly fix them.  If I could fix things, he’d be cooking the tea.) I am patient, listen attentively to the stories of his day and am so close to being the perfect 1950’s housewife, it’s totally unnerving him.  I sing his praises endlessly and can’t quite see past how great he is.  Absolutely terrifying.

I believe I can do things if I choose to.  I just want to see where my nose leads me.  Meanwhile, I’ve had some great chats with people who have either a diagnosis or are considering seeking one.  We compare notes.  Such differences in our age, academic success, gender, and yet we connect because there are these themes that run through each of our lives that we recognise and empathise with. One person is exploring the effect it has had on his life, seeking to understand his issues and look at what he can do to smooth the things that are troublesome and celebrate other aspects.  He’s not planning to go down the medicated route.  Another has chosen the medicated route as the impact on her life was harsh and debilitating despite real academic and professional success. This is not a magic pill.  It doesn’t iron everything out and at the base of this, you still have the personality that you have. And there can be other things like hormones raging through your system that complicate things. My clinician said “this doesn’t solve everything.  It doesn’t make you a genius if you’re not, but it gives you a fighting chance.  You must do the work.”

Each person I’ve spoken with demonstrates such empathy, that it warms the soul. I am 3 weeks into this treatment, and it has been illuminating and exciting.  I’m not advocating for medication as the route for everyone.  But at 62, I don’t have time to mess about. You need to take the assessment and be under the care of your Clinician who reviews and monitors side effects and efficacy.  

Lucky, lucky Spook.  That’s all I can say. It’s like we’re 30 years younger, I say with effervescent enthusiasm.

Spooks reaction? Well he told me he’d bought something. Something special, he said.

A one man tent…..

Judge, Jury and Sentencing.

As children raised by parents who were avid readers of Robert Burns, we were far more likely to have him quoted to us than anything from the bible. Some quotes stick more than others.  Even my husband will quote Burns after a night out where he perhaps imbibed a little more than I thought was appropriate.  

Look at you, he’ll say “nursing yer wrath tae keep it warm,” (Tam O’Shanter) as I gather my brow like gathering storm over our morning coffee.  I prefer to take at least half a day before I’ll get over my sanctimonious murmurings.

Recently I was deep in conversation with a 35yr old man in England, where I stated that I thought kindness was what I valued most in a person.  He thought for a moment then said

“I’d say self-awareness.”

Ooooooh. I could just hear ma mither.  

“Oh wad some pow’r the giftie gie us, tae see oursels as ithers see us.” (Tae a Louse.”) She probably doled this one out while I was mid-tantrum and stamping my feet over something ridiculous.

I arrived in Glasgow for my assessment.

To quote from Tam O’Shanter again “the hour approaches, Tam maun ride. Nae man can tether time nor tide.”

I was just going to walk into the room, sit down and answer the questions she asked me.

I walked into the room and said “I’ve already had 500 conversations with you since I clicked the button to make this appointment.  You should already know everything there is to know about me, so I have nothing more to say.”

And I continued in this vein for 1hr and 20mins before she held up her hand and suggested I take a break, go to the loo, and sit for 10 mins over a glass of water in the waiting room while she consulted her notes.

Prior to her halting me in my tracks, I sat on her sofa (where there was a box of hankies on the table between us) and don’t remember much of what I told her.  I do know that at one point I threw my hands in the air and said with absolute conviction, “The problem is, I don’t present as someone with ADHD!!”

There was an ever so slight raise of her eyebrows as she leant forward a little and asked “What makes you say THAT????”

“I have had a happy and stable relationship with my husband for 35 years. I have 2 fantastic children and a lovely house.  I can hold down a job for years and years without question - people don’t understand what the problem is.”

“The thing is,” I continued, “This hasn’t ruined my life.  It’s just a shame.”

Again, a slight leaning in as she said quietly, with warmth and empathy, “It IS a shame.”

I reached for one of her hankies.

When I came back into the room, she said “I’ll bet that was the longest 10 minutes of your life.”

Really? I hadn’t realised she was crunching numbers.  I’d thought she was possibly hanging out the window smoking a much-needed cigarette or lying on her sofa, a cold flannel on her brow, a dram in her hand.

“Not particularly,” I said. “But the last 6 weeks since making the appointment has.”

And she was going to give me the results of her assessment right here and now? I hadn’t seen that coming.

There are 15 points in 2 categories.  To make a diagnosis of ADHD, she needs to have found evidence of at least 5 in both categories.  I had 9 in each.

It was about a week later that she sent her full written assessment.

My first response to the document was that she now knew me better than my husband.  My 2^nd was to see myself as “ithers see me.”  Ooft.

She did state that my’ insight into my symptoms and functional impairment was good’.  (As a long term naval-gazer, this would be true enough.)

I demonstrated ‘high verbosity’. I had to google it – ‘using far more words than necessary to convey an idea which often obscures the core message rather than clarifying it.’

Oh my god, when I think of poor hitch-hikers who have scrambled out of my car on arrival at their destination, looking more exhausted than if they’d walked.

I remember a colleague at my workplace handing me someone’s farewell card to sign, saying “we’ve left plenty of space for you as you always write more than anyone else.”

She noted that ‘it was at times difficult to interrupt or redirect.’ (Poor, poor Spook.)

I was often ‘tangential’ and difficult to contain.  Eek.  I had to look that up as well.  It’s going off at a tangent and not coming back to the point.

I ‘appeared to have difficulty filtering information.’  My memory flashed back to how I always practiced for the local Winter League mountain bike races years ago so that I knew how I would feel at each stage, know what was coming next, how to pace myself, and when it would end. At the start of the actual race, the organiser gathered us round and told us there was a section added on to the start.  As he explained what that was, all I heard was white noise and had no idea what he was saying.  Spook was watching me from the other side of the group and came over to me, laughing.  

“Jeez, you look like you need a slap with a wet Kipper! Stop panicking – it’s just the ‘hole in the wall’ added in at the start.”  What I NEEDED  was his gentle hands on my shoulders, grounding me, and giving me that information.  No wet kipper required!!

She’d asked me if I was impatient.  “Hmmm, I suppose so.  I have recently been telling my husband to get to the point because I can’t cope with his long stories.”  A touch of the pot and kettle!!

 She tapped on her ipad.

Once she’d given me my diagnosis we discussed what my next step would be.  She acknowledged that I had done enough pyscho-education (educated myself on the options) and had a clear understanding of my issues and what I hoped to achieve with a diagnosis, and my expectations of using medication were reasonable and potentially achievable.  There are other ways to support this diagnosis with coaching and CBT, but we agreed that I was probably beyond that with the things I wasn’t achieving and the efforts I’d made to overcome that.  My sentence was to be a low dose of an amfetamine based drug increasing to a higher dose after 2 weeks, taken every day to establish effectiveness, side effects and suitability.

“This is not a cure, nor a magic potion. You have to work at the things you want to achieve.” She cautioned me.

She passed me the hankie box.

Compiling The Evidence (Part 2)

Preparations for the court appearance began in earnest.  Should I channel Sheldon Cooper in The Big Bang Theory?

“Like a milking stool, my case rests on 3 points!”

No.  That won’t work as I have a lot more than 3 points – it’s more like an upside down hedgehog, if we’re counting points.  And let’s face it, Sheldon presenting his own case nearly had him thrown in the cells for the night.

The Clinician does gather whatever evidence she can ahead of the appointment.  I was to fill in several pages of questions which had possible responses of - never, rarely, sometimes, often or very often.  Some of them had boxes for expansion as the responses are not necessarily that clear cut.  I ended up doing my forms 3 times due to not saving properly and finally she had to write asking where they were as I had failed to click the ‘submit’ button.

I was asked to identify someone who lives with me and knows me well so that they could fill in similar forms.

Spook looked weighed down by this prospect and sat down to do it after tea one night.  I was washing the dishes and glanced over to see that after 5 minutes, he’d got bored and was scrolling on Facebook!

“Oh my god!!  Have YOU got ADHD?”

He worked away at it and with only 3 questions left to answer(and not realising that these were the last 3,) he went to bed. When he came down in the morning, he’d lost the lot and had to start all over again.

Because I’m 62 and can’t bring my Mummy to the assessment, someone I grew up with also needed to fill in these forms. I’m the youngest of 5, so who to ask?  The eldest sister who cared for me lovingly as the ‘baby of the family’ but left home when I was still just 14? My brother, who lived in a bedroom that was an absolute boorach until he was 14 and gutted it, built shelves in the cubby hole under his bed and put everything into amazing order?  I remember thinking “huh! As if THAT’S going to last!” But it did. Never again did chaos descend into his living space.  So much so that there’s barely anything in his cupboards now, and years ago, after staying at his house before an early flight and curling up under a small sheepskin rug on the sofa, I made such a fuss that he had to go and buy spare bedding so that HE didn’t have to go through that again.  I seem to remember there was a couple of pairs of neatly lined up shoes in a large walk-in cupboard, nothing else. Who lives like that???

I didn’t think he was the right choice.

What about the sister who was presented with my 2^nd year algebra homework at bedtime?  I went off to sleep and left her slaving away over it, with the perfect results left outside my bedroom the next morning.  How on earth did no one comment on my complete inability to understand this crazy language, and yet presented perfect homework?

Or the sister who told me the other day that although she looked really annoyed at having to come in and tidy my messy bedroom, she secretly loved the challenge.

I chose the Saintly Algebra Solver, who never once questioned the stupidity of leaving my homework until bedtime, nor got annoyed with my peaceful slumber in the room next door while she sat up till late on my behalf.

This new important task put her in a total panic at having to view our childhood through a different lens and not let me down. The wee sister who clowned around, but couldn’t tie her shoelaces, tell the time or put her duvet cover back on without a temper tantrum (from deep inside the cover.) Was there something else going on?  She took the job on in the same vein as she did the algebra homework.  Diligently,thoughtfully, and relieved that I hadn’t left it to the last minute.  

The Clinician also said that written evidence from my childhood would be very useful.  There must be evidence of these issues pre 12 years of age or it gets harder to make a diagnosis.

Pre 12?  I’m 62!  Who’s got that kind of stuff at MY age?

Oh yes - my dad.  When we cleared the house after he’d passed away (my mum had passed away 4 years previously,) I found my file.  He was very fond of keeping files.  Every report card since primary 2 (I was in my 3^rd primary school by that time) through to 5^th year. Included in the file were the interim reports which he always wrote to the teachers and asked for from primaries 4-7.  These were perhaps a little more illuminating than the official reports, but you could almost hear the sigh from the teacher as, yet again she had to find something to say about one of the least disruptive pupils in her class.

“I’m sure you will have realised by now that Morag is a little different from the rest,” wrote Dad.

I took that to mean not as bright.  I was the only child in Primary 6 who could not do the work on the blackboard to subtract a sum of money from £5.00. And I was the Bank Managers daughter – adopted into a blended family right enough, so no useful mathematical skills passed on through the bloodline.

Having submitted all this information, it was up to me to make the most of the upcoming 2hr appointment.  I mulled over the relevant issues. I mulled over what significance they might have had on my life. I mulled over why I now wished to address this. I impulsively blurted out to people that I was going for an assessment and found myself defending my reasons, whilst people told me that they did this or that too, but it didn’t mean it was ADHD.  And what did I hope to achieve at my age? The reality is that the only person who knows the whole story of what’s going on in your head and the full effect of it on your life, is you. I told myself not to tell anyone else.  And then did.

If I can’t convince them, how can I convince my clinician?

Would I show her a picture of my baking cupboard?  Should I tell her about the spice cupboard which has to be opened slowly in case a jar of Dill hits you on the head?  I could tell her about how I don’t like cooking, have little use for Dill and don’t even like the taste of it, but had followed the same recipe for a dip 3 times and consequently had 3 jars of ‘in date’ Dill in the cupboard. My Bestie Caravan Cupboard Organiser sorted the spices out on her next visit.  She disposed of 2 of the jars of Dill and challenged me to use up just one jar in my lifetime.  She put all the spices into alphabetical order because we continually had to take all of them out every time we cooked because no matter what we need, it’s always at the back of the cupboard.

Surely this is compelling evidence?

I practiced condensing it into 2hrs. I thought about it in bed at night.  Over breakfast and all day.  I did even less than usual.  By the time I took the Ember bus to Glasgow for my appointment, my stomach was in knots and I had nothing left to say – not one thing. I was going to walk in,sit down, and wait until she asked me questions.

The Baking Cupboard. My daughter is scared of this cupboard. A particularly low point was when I tried to remove a bag of flour but it was glued to the surface by the treacle that had escaped from a tipped over tin. The bag ripped and the flour stuck to the spread of dark goo.

I need a Lawyer (Or Spook Does!) Part 1.

Thanks to my pal Mel Shand for my sunny pic, and for the chihuahua cuddle opportunity. I’ve written this piece because……hmmm. I felt compelled to. And these days I’m following my nose.

Less haste, more speed!” my mother used to say.

“Write it down! That way you won’t forget—NOT on your hand, unless you want blood poisoning.” Said Dad.

“Why didn’t you check the paper where you wrote it down? What do you mean you’ve lost it?”

“Why didn’t you bring your school jotters home like I specifically asked?”

“Look at the state of your toenails! You need to cut them after your next bath.”

“Look at your toenails! Why did you cut them now when I told you to wait until after your next bath? What? There are still three days to go and you’ll forget? You silly girl, you’ll ruin your feet. You need to concentrate and listen to what I say.”

More than 25 years ago, my dear husband, Spook, came rushing out of the loo, waving my copy of RED magazine in my face.

“I know what’s wrong with you!” he declared. “You’ve got ADD. Look at this.”

Is your purse a mess?

Is your handbag a mess?

Is your car a mess?

Are your cupboards a mess?

Do you rush from task to task without finishing any of them?

If so, you may have Attention Deficit Disorder.

We laughed, agreed, and moved on, because what exactly do you do with that information? Tidy everything? Finish tasks in order? No. You simply carry on as you always have, because that is who you are. It is frustrating, and friends who kindly tidy your cupboards—which helps you to breathe—come back a few weeks later, roll their eyes, and eventually stop bothering. What is the point? My best friend of more than 40 years once emptied the laundry cupboard in my caravan business and put everything back with perfect order: single, double, and king-size sheets neatly separated; towels and tea towels together; cleaning cloths here, bath mats there. It was brilliant. I no longer had to keep running up to the house because I had fetched the wrong size sheet. But when she came back a few weeks later and peeked inside, she looked at me and said, “You are a very bad girl.” I hung my head in shame, we laughed, shrugged it off, and moved on. And I carried on running up and down to the house because I still had the wrong sheets.

When I feel wronged, misjudged, or stripped of control that should be mine, and I cannot make someone understand how deeply that matters to me, my reactions can be explosive. They become so intense that they overshadow the original offence, making it easier for the other person to dismiss or distort what happened. “Well, didn’t Morag go off on one? What a scene.”

Thankfully, I can count only around ten episodes in my life that were truly bad, so most people do not know this is such a debilitating part of my personality. It would be far better handled by calmly and quietly saying that someone’s behaviour was unacceptable. But I cannot do that when I am incandescent with anger. On at least four occasions, my throat has tightened so badly that all I could produce was a high-pitched wail. Fairly enough, that does rather distract from the issue at hand. Small wonder the people on the receiving end of my fury lose sight of what they actually did wrong.

So, we move on—but not really. Rumination can last for years. My best friend often says, “Move on.” I would if I could. My deepest need is to be understood. If I could explain why I was so upset, gain some understanding, and hear even a simple acknowledgement that the incident was hurtful to me, then perhaps I could move on. Not necessarily an apology—just recognition that, yes, this was offensive to Morag. Then I could apologise for my own inexplicable behaviour, because I would finally have a chance to explain it. You see? I am not unreasonable.

The H has usually been low-key in my life, and Spook and I simply did not think I had it. I rather liked the idea of having the H—I imagined I would finally get things done. The trouble with an overpowering H, though, is that it often gets the wrong things done: things no one else is necessarily asking for. When I returned to painting 20 years ago, I was delighted. I could not wait for the children to get to school so I could paint. But I did not first put the house in reasonable order, which would only have taken 40 minutes, and chaos followed quickly. So I stopped painting. The same happened with reading. After finishing a really good book, I knew I could not risk starting another because I would not be able to put it down long enough to do anything else. So I stopped taking that risk, and gradually I read less and less.

But looking back over the past 20 years, I can see that the H is there—it simply appears on its own terms. I do not control it, and I could never predict whether it would show up when needed. It seems to be triggered by someone else’s urgent need and by the sense that I am the only person who can respond. When it does appear, it brings extraordinary clarity of thought and the ability to multitask, manage projects, and keep everyone’s needs in view. Spook says it is both terrifying and impressive.

I can clearly remember only three quite different occasions when this happened, though there may have been smaller ones too. In general, motherhood is a life of constant response rather than control. It is a nonstop roller coaster of meeting other people’s needs without the time to stop and ask whether you are doing it well. You just keep going for as long as you are needed. Sometimes it is only when that work ends that you notice the unfiltered you. And it’s not very impressive at all!

Suddenly, there is time for all the things you’ve longed to do, yet you can’t bring yourself to do any of them. You can think about them endlessly, but you still can’t begin. You look back on your life and see everything you thought you would have done by now, and none of it has happened. Did you simply forget? In truth, you know it was a lack of confidence. You rarely finish what you start, and you fear you would probably have failed. You can’t bring yourself to ask anyone for an opportunity because you suspect you wouldn’t follow through. The conclusion feels inescapable: you are all talk and no action.

Then conversations with two very different men—one in his fifties, the other in his twenties—revealed that both had recently been diagnosed with ADHD and were taking medication. The changes they described in their behaviour, though quite unlike my own, made me realise that something might actually be done about this. Endless to-do lists could get the chores done, but they left no energy for anything more creative. They took all day and felt like wading through wet cement. They were neither satisfying nor fulfilling. On my 62^nd birthday, I finally booked a private ADHD assessment.

That’s it, I said to Running Girl. I’m not going to talk about this any longer. I’ve finally done something about it. And yet, for the six weeks leading up to my appointment, it was all I talked about. How do you convince someone, in two hours, that you have this condition? How does she sort through 62 years of life and separate it from mental health issues, ordinary laziness, menopause, and significant childhood loss and disruption? I felt as though I’d need a lawyer to present my case……..meanwhile, I was boring the knickers off everyone. The longest 6 weeks of Spooks life.

Sunshine on Greenock.

Suddenly, it arrived. Out of nowhere. The promise of things to come. A week of summer in the late spring. Just enough to keep the eternal optimist section of our Scottish character alive. Of course, it couldn’t last and we were all nervously glancing over our shoulder, knowing it would be stolen from us.

Hollywood arrived too, in the shape of a reboot of Highlander, the movie from 1986. There was the odd non starry looking Star kicking about the place but the real stars were at the auction mart. My job as chief loo cleaner suddenly got glamorous. I got to say hello to the horses every day.

This is Jack. He is the one the actors want because he makes them look like they know what they’re doing even when they don’t know horses. I’m assuming he will be the one that we see our rebooted Highlander astride when the film comes out. Most of the horses have stunt doubles for whoever is doing the tricky stuff. Pinocchio was being dishonest because he looked black as night but was actually grey. You could just see his real colour round his eyes. His stunt double was also a grey that was dyed black. 2 of the horses I met had one job - to rear up. That was it.

I had a soft spot for the ginger among them….

If it wasn’t for enterprising friends who drag me out of town, I’d never have made the effort to go to Glasgow town last Saturday to see Stand and Deliver at The Tron theatre. Thank goodness they did, because finding inspiration in the shape of the past, can shape the future. Even if it’s just in how our wee hearts felt when we left the theatre. What a magnificent show. About the sit-in by the (mostly) women of the Lee jeans factory in Greenock in 1981. I was 17 that year and oblivious.

When it transpired that the American company was going to move its production to Northern Ireland, the 240 workers barricaded the doors of the factory and refused to leave. They risked their livelihoods and refused their redundancy because without work they had nothing. All they wanted was to go to work every day and earn a living for their families - many of whom had husbands who’d already been laid off. No one was looking for a glamorous life or increased pay.

At the Chrysler factory in nearby Linwood, where the Hillman Imp was produced, the workers protested in the same year but lost the fight with between 4,800 and 6,000 jobs lost. This is referenced in The Proclaimers Letter from America.

The (mostly) women in Greenock didn’t give up though only 140 lasted the full 7 months. And saved their jobs when there was finally a management buy out from the Americans. They did it with dignity, determination and discipline. No bad behaviour from anyone.

https://www.nationaltheatrescotland.com/events/stand-and-deliver-the-lee-jeans-sit-in

The talented actors played and sang the music of the time. They made us laugh, cheer and weep. There was a feeling in that room that many of the audience had been close to the action. On the opening night, the main activists of the time were there to see their story unfold on stage. The play moves around the country now and will be at Eden Court in June. The last show will be in Greenock. That will be one to experience!!

It’s a long old journey on the West Highland Line. But with the sun setting at around 9pm, it was a glorious run home.

I’d like to thank my booking agent for her encouragement to attend the play, and my travel agent for booking the train and ensuring we had seats.

Thanks Curly & Kaz. Great company.

Transcendental Splish-Splashing.

Fresh from Sam Boughton’s 3 day art retreat on the Ballachulish Riviera, I’m still bearing the ink stains - and the hallmarks of a student who can’t do whit they’re telt, but who knows she can try harder, and brings home the genuine desire and belief that if she keeps going and never gives up, she’ll reap reward after reward.

That’s great teaching. Sam’s commitment to her group is complete. She knows this is hard even when she makes it look SO easy. She’s been developing her practice for years.

We see her online - splashing some ink on the paper, flicking a dash of colour across it, and quickly dashing down some marks with art Graf. And there on the paper we see the estuary, the epic sky and the expanse of the land. There might have only been 4 or 5 moves on the paper. But we see it in its entirety.

We were all there so that we could learn how to do that. To limit our marks, learn what to put in and what to leave out. To make something that feels like the place where we are.

Some had travelled from Iceland, California, and SW France as well as England and closer to home in Ayrshire and Skye - such is Sam’s reach.

The course was hosted by Morag Young at Woodlands, Glencoe.

https://www.woodlands.scot/

Morag’s hospitality was everything you’d hope for in the Highlands. Gentle consideration of everyone’s needs. A participant in the course herself, her main aim was clearly the wellbeing of the group. She was there throughout the whole retreat and never wavered from her role. She also understood where we were all at, as we listened to Sam and then set off to just do what she’d told us to do - ready to catch us as we faced our efforts and often our disappointments.

There was much scratching of furrowed brows, and cocking of heads in critical analysis as we looked at our papers from different angles and wondered why it wasn’t as easy as Sam had just shown us. Our brains seemed to get in the way, marking down too much of what we were seeing and forgetting to get the feeling. I don’t do landscapes because I just can’t get the perspective and I don’t know what to leave out. But looking at Sam’s work made me want to find a way.

These 2 are mine. We were working in soft pastel as it was raining and the dampness worked well with the pastel. Ink would just wash away.

Wendy’s - I think.

Petra’s - perhaps.

With the promise of sunshine we headed to Cuil Bay. I’m not sure how many of us thought Sam turned up at her estuary and moorlands and just started flicking paint about. I know I did.

The reality is that she will spend at least an hour looking at the landscape and carefully mixing her inks to make the colours she’s seeing. She tests them on papers to see if she’s got that right and keeps mixing until she feels she has the colours she needs.

So whilst we all got supplied with the same inks that are on the paper to the right of pic, the colours we created and splashed on the paper were all very different. Sam is just testing her colours on the paper here. You need a spray bottle to water down colours on the paper that are too strong. But you also need dry paper to get the strong marks, so you need to let it dry and work on several papers at a time. And you need to keep some dry brushes to be able to make some dry textures.

You need to be athletic to chase your pots down the shore when you forgot to weigh them down with pebbles (or sit next to someone who is.) You need to have speed to catch your papers before they reach the sea when a mini tornado catches them. Zig-zag rugby skills may be required as each paper goes in a different direction. Ideally you will not be holding an open jar of ink as your paper flips in the wind and when you grab it, the ink shoots out the bottle onto your paper. Swearing in new company is optional but hard to avoid. Thankfully there’s a lot of space at Cuil Bay and my very Scottish approach to limiting my language seemed to go unheard - I hope. If only I could limit my marks so well.

I soaked my papers and forgot to let them dry. I wet all my brushes and mixed lots of colours and couldn’t tell what was in each pot. I just made colours up. I was out of control and splashing and spraying and swearing.

I showed my darling husband my efforts and he said it was like an exercise in reading ink blots.

I forgive him for this as I was having an amazing holiday on my doorstep. Freedom from thinking about ANYTHING else. Not even my dog, who went to work with Spook (husband). I came home each night and watched Spook cook my dinner as I sipped my wine.

Sam took us back to the studio and showed us how to edit our pictures right down. Where we thought we had nothing, Sam found a wee piece of treasure. She showed us how to develop that little piece of treasure into caskets of gold - how to mix acrylic colours that matched the inks we’d made. How to make a delicious creamy white that was the same colour as the paper we were using. When she did this and then splashed it across a painting, there was a collective, soft, worshipping whisper of ‘oooooh.’

Sam grinned and said “I LOVE painting”.

Inside my head, I was imagining Spook being in the room and looking at us, thinking ‘what just happened there? What did they see that I didn’t?’

That’s what happens when a diverse group of people are all there with a similar aim.

Cuil Bay was so blue.

Sam took Jo’s work, below, as an example of how to develop an idea.

She spent a good while mixing acrylics to the right colours and then just experimented using the ink images for inspiration.

She mixed the white and splashed it down…..that was when our collective sigh of satisfaction emanated from us, as we leaned in.

She took Antje’s sketch and showed us how you could play around with pastels without committing until you were happy. A tiny slither of turquoise pastel on a slip of paper to see if that was the thing to make it zing….

Where am I in all this? I’m hopping up and down on the rocks just making stuff up. Totally absorbed but completely unable ‘tae dae whit ah’m telt’. Thankfully Sam’s cropping down to reveal treasure, even if it was found on another beach - in a foreign land - gave me something to play with.

She showed us how to zone in with Margo’s painting…..

Yet again, we all said “ooooh”.

Because the colours were what we’d been seeing, it picked out a landscape we recognised.

I was clearly somewhere else. On analysis of my cropped ink blots some thoughts occurred…..

It was a bit stormier where I was.

There was no ink left in the bottle I was holding after the wind flicked the paper - so this is evidence of that wind. No sound affects, thank goodness.

My dear friend, Running Girl said she saw a ladies torso here with a bit of boob. This may say more about her than me. On reflection it probably IS a better piece of Life Drawing than I ever did when faced with a nude. I might call it The Naked Landscape.

I transported myself to a distant, volcanic land at sunset.

I’ve stayed on at Cuil Bay long after everyone else had gone home, to catch the local sunset (which I hadn’t!)

I’ve nipped up Mt Lushan in Sechuan Province in China - just because.

Ehhhhh. Gorse bushes? Wind? Grass seed? Aye!

Running Girl said “that’s the snow melting up at Nevis Range. “. Spook did send me a pic of where he and the dog were whilst I was at the bay….

I ripped most of this away and thought I could stick a bit of my ripped ink blot onto it…..

When it’s not your thing, it’s hard to understand why splashing paint, ripping, glueing and in my case, just making stuff up, brings so much pleasure.

Thankfully I have also purchased Sam’s excellent Plein Air part 1 course, online. It’s £27 and you keep it for ever. There is so much guidance and encouragement in this wee package that I’m going to determinedly keep learning and see if I can use some of this process to record some of things I DO see. This little course is a treasure in itself and I’ll definitely be looking out for part 2. https://www.facebook.com/share/1Gsn8WrP7F/?mibextid=wwXIfr

And if you’re not interested in painting anything you can still escape for a coffee or a meal at Woodlands, Glencoe or even some spa treatments. It’s 30 minutes from where I live in Banavie, Fort William and is a world apart. Lochaber is so diverse a region - why would you ever need to go anywhere else? Ok, so the suns shining right now and we instantly forget how long our winter has been!!

Next 3 pics are this mornings dawg-walk.

Happy daze. Thanks to all who took photos on the course, shared them and let me use them here. A fantastic group that I loved being a part of.

I’ll Just Look That Up…..

Like many, I’m a shocking scroller. Procrastination is ever present and can be totally absorbing. I convince myself I’m soaking up facts, wonderful creative ideas, enlarging my field of understanding - whilst in reality, I’m only putting off chores which get in the way of adventures and creative pursuits and none of the scrolling translates into action - quite the opposite. Don’t bother telling me to just put the phone away. Nope! That’s not happening.

Even as I finish my coffee in the morning (my worst scrolling time,) a stern look from my cup doesn’t get me moving.

Sometimes I get a wee fright when I see him. He doesn’t appear every time so he can be a shock.

My version of reading the tea leaves, is reading the coffee foam!! He says “get off your arse you lazy woman!!!”

I’ve lost the energy for my creative projects but have been ‘making’ myself create a small collage every day as part of the 100 day art challenge. I started on the 22nd February so should conclude at the end of this month. My hope being that it gets me to the table and it might keep me there. And maybe I’ll like 10 of them. There’s little thought goes into them. It’s just a process to remind myself I’m still here.

One day I stayed and made a picture….

But mostly I don’t, I just find wee pictures within the collage…..

My husbands view on the matter? As long as it keeps you happy darling.

Hmm. Sort of.

Thankfully there are still snippets of sunshine to keep us going.

I can always add things to my concertina sketchbook when I’m stuck (which is most of the time).

The chaos of the concertina sketchbook is probably an accurate reflection of the chaos inside my head. In 7 days time I’m going on a 3 day landscape course in Glencoe which is led by a woman from Cornwall, who teaches that less is more. Sam Boughton. 3 days to just be out in the wild with limited materials and nothing else to do but splatter them onto paper. And potentially freeze our butts off.

I think that sounds like bliss.

Squalls and the Squidgy Tube of Life

As we wait for Spring to be kind to us, it’s easy to forget that she has been kind in moments - which have got lost in the driving rain, the grey clag, the sleet, the dog walks huddled up against the wet wind - the drama of starting a walk in the dry and watching it close in all around you, knowing you are inadequately dressed and will not be able to outrun the next squall.

It’s in front of you…..

And it’s behind you. And it’s moving fast. This squall was 5 minutes away.

Glimpses of promise.

She brought drama even after nightfall.

And then she was benevolent in the morning.

My daughter gave me long lasting flowers for my birthday and I caught their last rays…

30 years ago, Spook and I sealed the deal on the 4th of April. We’d been together for 5 years and didn’t want any fuss so didn’t tell anyone except the parents. But we forgot it was Easter and the whole family descended upon Inveroy. I was reduced to whispering in Spooks ear “we’re getting married in the morning. Ding dong.” Meg was 9 months old and came with us. Finn was not yet born. This led to later arguments around the tea table where she would tell Finn he wasn’t really part of the family because he wasn’t there. And he’d remind her of her illegitimacy. He did suggest that we might need to renew our vows in order to get him fully installed - just in case. We didn’t. But rather than a string of pearls, Spook gave me a night out at the Railway Club. Where we had excellent company and soaked up the youthful atmosphere from the followers of Heron Valley. https://www.heronvalleyband.com/the-band

Back in the day circa mid 90’s, I used to watch the old-time dancers float around the room to Tony MacCuish, as if they weren’t old at all, light on their feet and dancing in a way we no longer know how to.

Now WE are the old-timers. And we didn’t dance. Shame on us.

Storm Dave was not quite reaching us despite the threat, but icy rain was battering the streets of The Fort. It’s good we managed to get off the sofa and get out!!!! Wonder if we can squeeze another 30 years out the tube. It’s all curled up, wrinkled and twisted, and there’s those wee leaky bits at the side, but it’s amazing how much you can still get if you squeeze hard enough.

Dyb Dyb Dyb, Scouts Honour and the Power of a Pineapple

A late March birthday is a gift in itself. You never know what you’re going to get and therefore expectations are open for taking what you find on the day. A summer birthday brings a little more pressure - I feel. Maybe I’m biased.

On my 10th birthday I remember my big sister, Coila, walking me down to the Priest Pond on a beautiful sunny, warm day. Daffodils and frog spawn everywhere.

On my 16th I remember walking through a damp, snowy field on a very driech day with my pal, Sarah - talking about boys.

On my 50th, my best pal since we were 19, treated me to a night at the newly renovated Corrour Station and restaurant. Because she’s a believer in being spoilt on your birthday.

It was deep snow, blue skies, warm, and so exciting, as we felt we were on the top of the world.

We could even see Ben Nevis!

And while we ate and then rested before the train home, Mel did a drawing of the restaurateurs dog.

Which looks like MY dog!

When I was 60 I made Running Girl walk 15 miles of the east highland way with me, where we were chased by flurries of snow and hit by hailstones. Where we crossed a ‘braided’ river which had 6 parts to it all of which had deep channels.

Me and the dawg spent 3 hours slumped in the Newtonmore Grill before we could lift our heads, while Running Girl recc’d the area for a suitable tent spot, erected the tent, and then had to coax me out of the Grill. It was closing time so unless I wanted to hide in the toilets, I didn’t have much choice.

We spent a cramped night next to a huge muddy puddle with the high speed night trains whizzing over us, and a farmer in his tractor woke us early as he redistributed the contents of the puddle over our tent. We were still there when the diverted Caledonian Sleeper passed above our heads. Running Girls daughter was working on the train and said she’d have thrown a breakfast sandwich at us if she’d known. Shame, but we went back to the grill for breakfast

Last year I decided on 2 nights on my own in Glasgow. I loved it and wasn’t always on my own due to chatty Glaswegians, sharing a drink with them and then meeting a friend for coffee on my way home. I love incidental, unplanned situations.

This year I made Running Girl come up with a plan that would challenge my lazy arse into action. It’s my 62nd birthday and I haven’t run since I was 54. I’d casually mentioned that I might try running again…… So it was the 11.30am train to Corrour which is an hour up the tracks, and 3 hours to make it round the 10 mile Loch Ossian loop and be back in the station waiting room in time to brew tea and eat a picnic. It had to be a jog/run or we might not make the 3.30pm train. And we wanted our picnic. It’s a long wait until the next one around 9pm. There’s no bus coming through in this wonderful wilderness. It had to be a Scout run, her mother called it. This is a way to cover longer distances quickly without exhaustion. (Turns out I’m no Scout!!!! )

But we did cover the distance quicker and even had time for a hot chocolate in the restaurant. I didn’t take a photo as I was too busy, hunched over my mug, sooking the lumps of molten marshmallow slowly through the cream, savouring every moment of it.

1st train ride for Courr and he was quite happy. Apart from sitting like this until I came back from the loo - just in case I abandoned him. It was a long train and he was trying to keep me in sight.

The forecast had predicted a dry start with rain coming in from the west after 2.30pm. When it came, it hit straight into our faces in a strong stinging wind on the last lap which gave me a facial strip that promised I’d look 5 years younger once the redness abated. This has turned out to be an empty promise.

But that’s ok. Sara made me a cake. The other week I’d given her some pineapple chunks for lunch, telling her they were good for her because they were full of Bromide. She was a little offended I felt she needed that until I remembered it is Bromelain. And SHE had remembered that bromelain is good for muscle soreness and recovery.

Unfortunately I forgot to eat my pineapple that day or the next and muscle soreness ruled my every movement - and non movement.

Sheltering from the wind, she brewed up a cuppa and we ate our sandwiches. We met Jo and her pals who were on the deluxe version of our trip. They’d taken the early train, stopped in the restaurant for black pudding rolls allowing time for the pudding to settle, before jogging round the loch and getting back in time for lunch and before the rain. That’s far too much luxury for Running Girl. Nothing she likes more than a bit of wild weather and a home brewed cuppa for after. I’m kinda surprised she let me in the restaurant at all.

Whilst Running Girl was delighted with the hardship of the challenge, the dog was gubbed.

No amount of pineapple or cups of tea was going to ease the shock of the sudden change of plan for anything more than a 40 minute sniff-around. He doesn’t need to worry though. It’s unlikely to be a regular occurrence. It’s a year until my next birthday.

Lionesses and Creaky Bones.

March came in like a lamb. The Lion arrived around 10 days later, with wind and heavy rain but also with what we experienced in Glasgow where 2 Munro women showed themselves to be lionesses.

The lack of wind did bring a little atmospheric mist and drama.

A morning walk along the Caol Riviera rarely disappoints.

At the other end of the day a moonrise and the dusk chorus was magical.

When your daughter’s as strong as an ox, it’s prudent to utilise that strength when required. The quad broke down on the far side of the burn and we Oldies couldn’t push it out. So when she was home in January we asked for her support.

Then, a couple of days ago we went to watch her and her cousin Dara compete at the Hy-Rox event in Glasgow. It was a pleasure to see them work together as a team and to watch the dynamics between the competing women. We feel pleased that we were able to offer some training on the Croft and are confident that we made a difference. She certainly made a difference to where the quad is now parked.

We witnessed Munro true grit in action. Meanwhile my sisters 2 pals were the oldest female competitors in their first ever competition, (aged 66&67 - maybe even the eldest altogether) won their category and a place in the Stockholm event. It’s an amazingly inclusive sport but as brutal for each age group as the next.

I feel I’m doing well if I get up in the morning and flex my shoulders, my neck and touch my toes. There is a LOT of creaking. Maybe I’m going to have to try a bit harder…..

Wolf in Woman’s Clothing (Well Blue Crocs and a Sou’wester)

A small contingent of Northern Munro’s and attendants (me), travelled to Northampton to say farewell to Billy’s young brother - Toey (John). 11 years his junior. Balancing the devastatingly sad loss of these two Munro brothers, was the gaining of a friend (for me, at least) and 3 next generation Munros and their other halves. When you get a funeral right, you come away with stronger connections than before you arrived. Precious moments.

I’m not entirely sure that the Hotelier would have considered all moments shared with the Northern Munros to be precious, however.

I’d been very careful to make sure the hotel keys were in Spooks sporran and the car keys in my coat pocket, as we were leaving the car at the venue. Alison declared not to have seen her keys since approximately 3pm. This was now 1.40am the next morning. I have a reputation of coming across a little supercilious at times (not sure where that comes from)and I was a little snooty at the prospect of sharing a double bed with Spook, his sister and his dad’s cousin. Honestly - just look after the keys. Please.

Spook handed me the keys from his sporran - the ones I had so carefully entrusted to his care. They were for the auction mart in Fort William which I keep in my car for convenience if I have to respond to a fire alarm.

Suddenly no one was sharing the double bed. We were all sleeping in the park. Until Alison jabbed her finger on the doorbell which was loud enough to wake the entire street, and the Hotelier appeared within seconds. With very little comment, he went and got master keys and we followed him to our rooms with our heads hanging in shame.

He was dutifully waiting to cook our breakfast at 7am when Spook and I got up early to retrieve our car. He seemed to be everywhere. He checked us in, made the beds, let us in at dead of night and served the breakfast. He even cooked it and then whipped off his apron to serve it, performing some kind of wizardry - until Spook realised they were twins.

This was not our first bout of shameful behaviour in a hotel. Many years ago we checked into a deserted hotel just ahead of a friend’s wedding in Aberdeenshire. It was all tartan carpets and faded grandeur. We had keys to let ourselves in at the end of the night and took it upon ourselves to make sure the place was fully secure. We made our way to our room in Starsky and Hutch style - throwing ourselves into doorways with our pretend guns held high, shouting “cover me” as the other dramatically commando rolled down the corridors and pretendy kicked our door down before commando rolling over the bed to land on the other side and check for baddies that might be hiding underneath. How we giggled.

We slept late and strolled down to breakfast to find a dining room full of guests staring at us accusingly. They were clearly waiting to see who the perpetrators might be.

Supercilious? No, not possible

I met the West Witch at Cammusdarrach in early February - one of the few places to have sunshine in the entire country.

Then we got snow in the hills, at last.

We celebrated the lengthening days, our continued dry spell (which ended,) the arrival of some flowers…

The catkins are bright against the blackened trees at the distillery.

My dog thought he’d genuflect to a swan. I’m a fan of the Blindboy podcast and he’s always recommending genuflecting and kissing swans and worms - to promote kindness in general, but the swan WASNT in the mood and it’s probably the last time the dog will try it.

I’ve been spending some time glueing and sticking. It’s quite addictive and when I find something I like Ì stick it in my book. I went to pour Spook and I a dram the other night and he wondered where I’d got to. I’d found a bit of napkin and couldn’t resist sticking it down. And he guessed this because there was a sticky residue on his whisky glass.

It’s an endless project because there’s always something else Ì can stick down.

I’m always thinking about it when I’m out and about. Although there are distractions that take my mind off this important project. Across in Speyside near Aviemore they have the historical Wolfman of Badenoch - he was a bit of a Bad Lad. In Lochaber we have The Wolf Woman. She’s way more friendly. In fact I was able to squeeze a wee photo opportunity with her to brighten an otherwise very dull day. When she wasn’t looking Ì checked the car bonnet to see if I could peel a bit off to stick in my book. But no - it’s permanent. And she might not be so friendly if she caught me trying…..

Approach with caution.

The Light, and the Likes and Dislikes of a Little Brown Dog

Jane’s trying to get to grips with the loss of her favourite lap. Not only that, but the other lap has gone for R&R and she’s been sent to Boot Camp. She is not happy about it. Life is a little scary.

Nooks and cranny’s are her thing. Not wide open spaces. Getting her nose tucked into a snuggly space is more her forte. Yes, she’s a Daschund. Yes they were made for badger hunting, but how many humans do you know that run around in a furry loin cloth, eating berries for the most part and a big hunk of meat now and then. Some? Really?

No. She’s more evolved than that.

Things have changed since the olden days.

So much so that when crossing this piece of ground, which is just a band of ground between two ravines carved over the years by two burns, in to which many many badgers have dug themselves a city. Burrows on both ravines and a rake of badgers living right beneath her paws. Did she hesitate for a sniff? Nope. Just wanting home to the sofa.

The walks are held up with long, lingering looks back to where she came from - the place with the sofa.

Roads that are too long make her blood boil.

She hates assault courses…..

Waves or slippy stones….

Seaweed - yuk.

She doesn’t like tunnels any more than she likes badger burrows. Why does no one understand this?

For the love of the wee dog!! Just a quiet, non moving lap. Please!!! And absolutely NOT one that makes more noise than HER!!

“Get that scary baby off me!!”

Not having to walk in the rain is the only bonus.

The south easterly winds have brought an amazing dry spell to Lochaber, whilst the normally dry eastern side of the country is floating away under a large puddle.

4pm 24th January. We have light!

8am on the 23rd. The stretching of the days is always worthy of the note.

The lack of rain gave us a clear sky so that we got to see the Northern Lights for a change.

Finn and Izzy had chosen a brilliant night to park up at Loch Arkaig. They didn’t know the lights were going to appear.

After a stormy night we got a sunny day and a moonlit night.

The longest month hath past. It has taken a very sad toll. We move forward. But never forgetting.

The Last Wolf

The Wolf Moon lit up Inveroy on the 3rd of January. Local legend has it that the last wolf of Lochaber was killed on the Croft here.

There was no darkness that night. Nowhere to hide…..

Before dawn, the Wolf Moon had circumnavigated the Croft and was sinking in the west.

The domestic dogs have no idea how hard life could actually be.

And indeed, the simple request of “can you take Jane for a walk?” became a test of the strongest will……

2 mins of pondering a walk, followed by the Long Carry.

Paths and roads turned icy and treacherous and anyone walking ANYWHERE became an issue.

Paths that looked innocuous turned out to be a hands and knees job at times!!

But then the rain came and we had to admit it was good to let the cold go, in favour of the rain. Not often we think that.

There have been protests since my daughter told my dog he wasn’t allowed to leave home with a croc. He figured he’d rather stay home.

But it was sad to let the twinkles go.

So I’ve kept mine, for a while.

Just to help brighten a sad sad time.

I can’t put into words how much I’ll miss this very quiet, dignified man.

Skies, Windows and Animals.

There’s no words, really.

Inveroy

Banavie

Inveroy

Toms photo

They’re home!!! YIPEE.

Mel Shands Artist photo (you can kinda tell the difference!)

The grumpiest dog in Lochaber award of 2025, goes to Courr.

December Delights

Sometimes they’re obvious and sometimes you’ve to look for them. Because it’s getting darker and darker.

8am on the 2nd of December. Sipping coffee and eating toast, Ì was enjoying the drama of it. By 9.15am it was low tide on Caol Shore and perfect timing for the dog walk.

4pm evening walks are pushing it a bit with the day light, but I like the dying light and the contrast with artificial light.

Corpach Basin.

Sometimes there’s drama in other places. I got a text demanding a Full Team Call Out. This is not the first time. Last time it was because Ken Bruce had announced he was retiring from Radio 2 and Running Girl was distraught that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy his daily Pop quiz which she loved as a good distraction while removing the stinky boot smells from the mountain Rescue Team Building. I didn’t know what this one was about but clearly it was serious.

Thankfully Ì was able to help. Stinky boots she can deal with, but this she could not.

This week brought the usual flurry of issues wrought by my poor choice making which often result in feelings of disappointment in myself. They stem from the condition of ADD which my husband diagnosed me with 25 years ago. (I am otherwise fully undiagnosed and mostly missing any signs of the H which seems to be the more useful letter of the condition.)

I had swept the floor and gone to get the brush pan to collect the sweepings when I remembered Ì hadn’t opened my advent calendar to remove the small bottle of white wine which I put in the fridge for the evening festive drink. Then I scolded myself for being so easily distracted, gathered up the sweepings and forgot the calendar.

I drank warm white wine that night - very disappointing.

On the same day I’d been fairly occupied with life’s household duties (scrolling, mostly,) and realised I needed to pee. As I went out into the hallway Ì remembered Ì hadn’t hung up the washing which had been waiting for hours, so diverted to complete that task as I knew I’d only forget again, whilst my body would surely remind me to pee. Midway through hanging the washing on the pulley, Ì was afflicted with the dreaded double sneeze which caused the 2nd disappointment of the day and a reminder of my poor choices - although at that point the 1st disappointment hadn’t revealed itself.

There have been bright days and bright moments.

Spook and Running Girl volunteered to time the Scottish Winter Swim Champs in Oban.

The organisers needed another volunteer to ‘be’ the Highland cow. It didn’t take long to find one…..

I find this particularly surprising as she is way more scared of cows than she is of mice.

The MOST delighted person so far this December is Jane the Sausage dog. Her favourite lap returned home, ending a very unsettling and distressing 49 days for her. She’s been fairly vocal about it and everyone is looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet. Not least Billy, who sat down in his favourite chair with the salut of a champion.

Stories From the Capital of The Highlands

When you spend a lot of time here it opens your eyes and your heart. The quick turn around of patients, the exhaustion of staff - and little by little their own stories appear. The nurse having a bad day with her own MS condition, getting a hug from the student nurse. The pregnant nurse desperate to get home to sleep. The young nurse struggling with severe migraines and trying to keep focus. The Domestic holding down 2 jobs and working 6 days a week as a result. The warmth and support offered despite a system in chaos.

There have been a surprising lot of English accents over the 5 weeks but this is the first time I’m listening to native Gaelic speakers. One from Stornoway and one from Barra. Phone calls, visitors - all in Gaelic.

The man from Barra came in on a chopper bound for Glasgow but diverted to Raigmore in a storm. 2 days later his daughter came from Glasgow to pick him up in the hope he would be discharged as his flight home to Barra is booked from Glasgow next day. But it’s the weekend, and it’s always dodgy getting out at the weekend. When the Doc called in to discuss the possibility of discharge and that she’d really hoped to review it in the morning, she told him she’d never been to Barra but it was on her list.

“Give me a call when you get there - I’ll put the kettle on.” He said, in his beautiful lilting English

Way to get your discharge!!!!! He was gone within 2hrs.

Billy Munro, you need to get on the charm offensive.

A 92 year old Northumbrian man who’s lived on a croft by the loch since 1961, desperate to get home and each days delay, feels like he’s never getting out.

He’s written a book.

I left Billy to get up and dressed and strolled off with my cuppa. The Domestic (a student nurse who works domestic shifts in between studies and placements) found me lurking between rooms with my tea and asked, laughing, if I was looking for a new patient to hang out with (he didn’t say ‘bother’ but I knew that was what he meant,) told him I was looking for the man who wrote a book - to tell him I’d bought it. The happy news was that he’s finally got home. The Domestic told me I could let him know by writing him a review.

Lurking in the toilets has been more fun than one might think. I didn’t know how to work this contraption but I’m a visual learner and soon picked it up. I’ve helped 3 older ladies get to grips with it. One of them had us both in giggles as she kept trying a different sink but put her hands in too wide - firing up the blowers and not the water. She thought they were broken. I had to follow her with her handbag and then take her hands and guide them under the tap. I think I could join the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service as a Toilet Attendant. There’s definitely a need there.

Been plenty of sunsets.

Sitting in this cafe, Ì met Andy again. He comes in to support his wife each day, with all of her meals. He’s usually reading a book - same as me - and we usually exchange a wave. Establishing some personal details of where we live and who we were visiting, he said he had an old school friend who had served his time in Lochaber Mountain Rescue Team. Jimmy Paterson, he said. No. I don’t know him, I said. They call him Scoobie, he said. I burst out laughing. I was at the same funeral as him a few days ago and showed him a photo I’d taken as I was there on behalf of Billy and had taken photos of all his pals. That’s him, he said.

One night on the other side of the ward brought the first sunrise while we waited for breakfast.

The light in the cafes remind me that November has continued as a good start to winter - weather wise.

The light at home tells the same story.

Though there was a little stormy drama…..

I found my namesake quietly sitting among the chaos knitting a jumper for her honorary grandchild whilst awaiting her new heart valve.

An opportunity arrived for a brief sortie into the sunshine. First in 5 weeks.

Drama is all around us here as the chopper comes and goes at all times.

At the end of the day, I go to Craig Dunain. This was built in 1864 and closed (officially) in 2000. A mental health facility originally called the asylum. My sister lives there with my brother in law Ian, and they have kindly reopened the doors to accommodate myself in a time of need. I’ve got my own room and recently had to take control of the tv remote as she and Ian kept asking questions about the actors in the drama we were watching. When Morag’s watching the tv you have to pause if you want to talk. Or, if you breathe too loudly, crunch your crisps too noisily or sup your wine too slurpily. IS THAT CLEAR????

The only Driving that Counts is Front Seat Driving.

Mither aywis said “if ye get a guid November ahin ye, ye’ll hae a guid winter”. (Something like that.)

November has brought colour, storms, sunshine and frost. And we’re only halfway through. It’s brought lots of journeys up the A82 to Inverness and Raigmore Hospital, and it’s brought lots of unexpected family time. It’s brought lovely Saturdays. The first one being my sloe picking day. The next being the Mallaig Book Festival - A Write Good Hoolie. And this Saturday brought my nephew from Edinburgh, and a fantastic road trip back to Mallaig.

Here’s the pictorial story.

Eden Court Theatre and the talented band Dallahan. A treat from my sister Marion and brother in law Ian.

The east coast haar crept in quickly. And 5 mins after this photo from the cafe at Raigmore, it crept out again…

Ì haunt the corridors of Raigmore and lurk in their dining areas.

The haar reveal.

A Write Highland Hoolie in Mallaig, where I sat still, mesmerised, from 9.30am to 5.30pm - listening, not speaking. I was late and my 2 friends were sitting in the front row. I whispered in a panic “we from Fort William always sit in the back seats!” The East witch said - “Ì draw. I ALWAYS sit in the front seats.”

Mel Shand - Artist. My bestest friend of over 40 years.

With the West witch in the middle.

I maintain it’s at least 18 years since Rory and I spent any significant time together. We had such a great weekend. Road trip to Mallaig - again, and never too much. Followed by a night by the fire with a dram and Local Hero. He was my perfect guest. He took loads of photos -just like his old auntie and we both seem to have a penchant for photies through the windie.

He travelled on the Ember bus. Loch Linnhe.

Glencoe.

Cammusdarrach. (Above 4 are Rory’s photies)

Lunch in Mallaig beside a much needed fire after his run into the Altlantic Ocean.

The dog doesn’t love the Big Red Bus. Billy’s campervan. He refuses to sit where he’s meant to.

I don’t care if you don’t like it Courr. You have to sit in the back seat.

“I don’t like it.” “I’m too far away.”

“I want to sit in Rory’s seat.”

“YES!!!!” Sorted. It took a bit of work but he finally pulled it off.

Rory’s windie photie.

My windie photie. Floor 3, having a breather before floor 6 destination. Raigmore.

My safe place. Sister Marion, and Ian’s house - Craig Dunain.

Fire, Fake Dogs and Fine Whisky.

My sister,Coila, called in to show me some wool she’d bought for a special project. Spook walked past her saying “I’m sorry I’m just in my underpants Coila, but I set my trousers on fire.”

He continued into the kitchen and through the back of the house.

Coila, who was completely unfazed by the underpants, was concerned that this act of self-immolation must be some kind of nervous breakdown. She stared at me in shock.

“It’s ok. He was welding, and set his overalls on fire which burnt a hole in the expensive cycling trousers he was wearing underneath - he’s just a bit pissed off.”

He’s fairly confident these ones are fire proof but failing that, he wants me to stand over him with a bucket of water while he’s welding. Fingers crossed as I have better things to do with my time.

Like gathering sloes for the gin. I got the call from Ronald that they were ripe for the picking.

It’s a very social past time as I exchanged pleasantries with Ronald’s neighbours, and partook in coffee and cake that he brought me as he knows harvest time can be hard work - so much better than standing over Spook with a bucket of water ‘just in case’.

It’s all part of the delights of October. Wild storms and calm days - you never know what you’re going to get.

Courr has found it a challenging month. One minute he’s got Scamp….who’s got a touch of the desert camel about her,

And the next he’s got the bloody sausage dog.

He mostly tries to pretend she doesn’t exist but when he turns the other cheek he’s got THIS to contend with….danger everywhere.

Coila dropped her ‘special’ project off and put Jane all wrong. This is Fake Jane who will be allowed in the hospital, unlike Real Jane who had to be content with peering in the window as her favourite lap is currently awaiting an operation in Inverness.

Having scoured the grounds of the hospital Auntie Al finally found the correct alleyway to get Jane as close to Billy as she could.

Fake Jane has taken up residence on Billy’s bed.

Real Jane is LIVID. After being stuck in the campervan for hours, she somehow managed to sneak into the lift beneath the Porter’s radar (sometimes the ridiculously short length of your legs can be an advantage.) She made it all the way to the 6th floor and showed the big faker how to cause a REAL stir. You can actually see Fake Jane at the foot of the bed in the photo. She’s toast!!!

Courr, despite a delightful life full of love and attention, maintains a permanent huff due to being usurped by other dogs, both fake and real. He needs to get over himself.

I’d like to thank The Antoinettes for their generous Thankyou gift for my efforts with their holiday transport. Some girls get chocolate and flowers. I prefer this….

Epilogue - The Antoinettes (Other Saints are Available - which is just as well as she’s not even a saint)

With the minibus out of the repair shop and able to go at full throttle Ì made my way back to Edinburgh to pick up the Boys from Bulgaria.

First stop Dunkeld - to meet Izzy and her mum for coffee. I parked up and went to get my ticket. 2 men were scratching their heads trying to work out how the machine worked. It’s the same as the one in Fort William which has everyone scratching their heads - even when they nearly know how it works. They spoke with a strong accent that was somehow familiar. I asked where they were from. The Balkans, they said.

“Oh, I’m just going to pick up my husband and friends who’re coming home from Bulgaria!”

They looked at each other and said - in their heavy accents -

“It’s ok - they will be safe there.”

Good to know.

I asked which country they were from.

Ukraine.

They said they had just arrived, were on their way to do the NC500 and were going home on Monday. Presumably they would NOT be safe there. For the want of anything more appropriate to say Ì just reached out and squeezed their arms and said

“Welcome to Scotland”

At least they won’t get a parking ticket.

After coffee at the Corbenic Community Cafe (https://www.corbeniccamphill.co.uk/corbenic-shop) Ì stopped for tea in Auchterarder. Aunt Nannie’s Prayer chair was going for it’s refit at Sui Upholstery (You can find them on Facebook)

https://www.instagram.com/sui.upholstery?igsh=bmVveXNicmwyazZt

I can’t think of a safer place (other than Bulgaria) to leave this old chair that I inherited from Nannie Grey when I was 15. It’s definitely over 100 years old. James looked at the legs and assessed Victorian. I wondered if I could be aged by my legs. Is there an era called Reptilian?

It had extended the seating capacity of the bus to 17.

Although chances are, the 17th passenger would drop through the bottom.

James gave me a wee tour of his workshop. An old machine with dodgy gears but which cuts through 4 layers of leather and a modern delight that makes his life a lot easier.

Tea drunk, bun devoured and by the time I left, James’s ears were bleeding from the strain of listening to me telling him 40 different stories at the same time. He and the prayer chair had morphed into things that had the stuffing knocked out of them. Whereas it had taken the chair 100 years to look like that, I’d managed to achieve it in 40mins. And he thought his old sewing machine was noisy!

I had just enough breath left to call into see my sister in Dunblane (the beauty of the A9 road in Scotland is that it spans a lot of people), before getting to the airport in time to drive round in circles for 45 minutes to avoid paying for parking but likely spending more on fuel.

The boys were looking a wee bit 2nd hand, but they were no longer my business as I was on my way to Ireland so handed over the keys and left them to it.

The high jinks of the night before appeared to have finished them off. They’d had a great last day out and bagged a lift home from the pub on a horse and cart. Great craic all round and very handy for the dude with the limp

They must have got a bit homesick as they were really keen to get a mention on the local radio station in Lochaber that night. They’d tried to get hold of the show host, Linda, but couldn’t make contact so they asked me to do so on their behalf. And they also asked someone’s dad. Linda had been having a very busy week and was getting pest texts just as she was rushing out to do her programme.

The tunes they requested were….

Big Sam’s Carry Out Ran Out.

OR

Jock Couplands Leg’s in Lybia.

OR

failing either of those well known Lochaber tunes (penned by one of the boys himself) -

The Hens March to the Midden.

Bulgaria is 2 hours ahead of Scotland and by the time Linda played a request for them, there were only 2 of the boys still awake. She’d probably dismissed the first 2 options as unreasonable requests and as she’d opened her show with the Hens Midden she played a very apt Duelling Banjos from the film Deliverance……for the Antoinette Hill Mob.

How I giggled at how neatly she’d put them in their place. The Antoinettes!!!! Penelope would be delighted. An all girl race team for the Wacky Races

I can’t quite bear to tell the boys that when I looked back at my message to Linda, just to check the names of the tunes - (let’s face it, they don’t exactly roll off the tongue) - Ì saw that Predictive text had changed Ant Hill to Antoinette!! Linda was just dutifully repeating my message. Oops. I wondered if I needed to relocate to Bulgaria where it’s reputedly safe!

And as if I’d somehow stolen their strength, almost all of the boys ended up spending a few days in bed with Spooks old box of hankies, making all the Molls desperately wish they’d stayed a few days longer in Bulgaria - which had proven to be more dangerous than the Ukrainians had thought.

I was lucky. Instead of being enclosed in the minibus with the diseased ones, I’d legged it to Glasgow and flown into Dublin early Saturday morning to be met by Meg, holding out a muffin and coffee. She was to become a God Mother. A high honour indeed. I’d told her I’d take the bus, but that would get me into Portlaoise 15 minutes before the ceremony and she wasn’t risking me bursting in the side door of the church, panting and sweating and causing her great embarrassment. So she thought it safer to make the 2 hour round trip to pick me up, which was really a bigger risk as she was an important element, whilst I was just a tourist.

We got to her house with 30 minutes to spare and time to iron her suit. Her Man said not to worry, as Mam had phoned to say it was later than Meg thought and we had an hour to spare. By the time Mam realised she’d made a mistake (totally out of character) we had 10 mins to get to church and rush hour appeared to have struck. Mam had sent Da to get her parents from their home in plenty of time for the later start which was now an earlier start and worst of all he had the candle in his car which the God Father had to light for the Baby. The priest had a christening committee of 2 women whose job it was to make sure that things went smoothly. There were 2 family groups going through the ceremony this day and only one group was sitting politely where they were meant to be and it wasn’t the group Ì was in. I have to say, that as the tourist, I was the epitome of dignified composure. It was Da - who may not have burst through the side door panting and sweating - but who miraculously got Nana and Granda into their seats before the priest’s committee banished him from the region for all time and got the candle into the hands of the Godfather in the nick of time. (And if you know who Auld Nick is in Scottish, you’ll know what a close call that was.) Nana glowed with delight at being back in her church, amongst her family. No amount of stern looks from the committee ladies was going to spoil her sheer pleasure.

Truly Ì was honoured to be with the group on the slightly unruly side of church. As the priest’s committee tried hard to keep the family rounded up, the love flowed from them, for baby Luca and his family - and my daughter cemented her role in their lives. If she is even a tiny bit as good a Godmother as her own Fairy Godmother is to her, Luca will be a very lucky boy.

And I get to have an Irish family too…

N.B. Ì only have one outfit - previously for weddings, funerals and ceilidh’s - now also for Christenings.

Of course, it’s a Fairy Godmother’s job to recognise the saintly qualities in their fairy god children. And Mel Shand (https://www.facebook.com/share/1CxV8Yyoqb/?mibextid=wwXIfr) is the very best on the market. She saw this immediately and sent it back to Meg.

N.B There is no saint called Antoinette other than an imaginary one created to help with self doubt and intrusive thoughts.