I write today from the train to
Perth – but sadly not the one in Australia! The small commission I undertook a
couple of years ago to write a history book seems to have spiralled into a Herculean
effort, as it takes me to Perth and – to
quote an old poem – many other parts of Earth. I still find it quite a novelty
travelling by rail and actually getting a seat, compare to the overcrowded
carriages that I used to commute on. That is not to say East Scotland isn’t
crowded, as proved by the snail-paced queues on the Edinburgh by-pass twice per
day which are now reaching M25 proportions. A few weeks ago I caught a glimpse of
that highly colourful chap, Michael Portillo, doing this very same rail trip,
out from the capital over the 100 year old steel bridge, up through Perthshire’s
rolling acres , to interview some folks about life during the Victorian times.
What I was amazed – and somewhat disappointed by – is that he failed to mention
one of the greatest spectacles in the agricultural world, the annual Perth
Bulls sales. Back then, upwards of 100 bulls would arrive by train from various
parts of the country to join over 1000 other hopefuls of their own breed to be
offered for sale each February. From there, many would again be despatched by
rail to the docks from where they would sail the high seas to the Americas and
beyond. I know this as, for the last two
years, my research tells me so. Currently my job is to document each of these
animals, discussing their pedigrees and early show career, as well as that of
their owners and keepers. During this
time I have uncovered men of immense skills and talent, bulls taken into
ballrooms, animals won on the toss of a coin and tales of amazement and
hilarity you could never have made up. I have to say, the job has been as
interesting as it has been exhausting and I hope the legacy it transpires into
will emphasise this fact. Actually I find it quite worrying that what I am
writing will be compelled to reality once it gets filed as the written word. You
see, it’s not like a monthly magazine, or a daily newspaper that will tomorrow
be lighting the winter log-burner. Let’s
face it, who would question what they found in a large expensive history book?
What if I made a mistake? What if I mishear what one of the old guard has told
me and document a McDermot as a McDonald or, worse still, an Eric as an Erica?
(The latter being common names of cows and bulls from that era, apparently). The
more I lie awake over such issues, the more of a cold sweat appears at my brow.
Am I the new Wikipedia – just making things up for my own amusement? Does the bored
man wearing cheap pin-stripes on the seat next to me with not a care in the
world, while he squanders his life playing Tetris on his phone, have any idea
of my plight? Will a drove of cattle-head anoraks arrive at my door with blazing
pitchforks, demanding the ‘truth’ in the name of bovine honour? In my defence,
I can only do my best to relate the stories and facts that have been passed on
to me, and then deftly usher the buck to someone else to verify. Which is why I
am headed to Perth, to see a man who knows more than I – and offer him a job!
I know I often bang on about how
fast the weeks go by but I cannot believe that our winter stint in Scotland
will shortly be at a close. By the end of the month, we will once again be back
in France, grabbing a few days skiing before going home to lamb the ewes and
mow the lawn. Sadly, we will be a few sheep short this year since the antics of
a hunting dog brutally stole a couple of the flock. This isn’t the first time
it has happened either, as the local chasse (hunt) head out on a Sunday morning
to shoot a few wild boar and then sit around getting drunk for the rest of the
day as their blood-thirsty canines roam free to further vent their carnal urges.
It is as maddening as it is saddening to think that I am powerless to protect
my own stock from such atrocity, such is the rural law in our parts. At least
in UK the hounds are within control of the crimsonly clad huntsman as they
clear up the country’s predatory foxes – but, of course, we are not permitted
to discuss that elephant in the
room!
Anyway, moving swiftly on, the carriage
is now passing the stunning empty beaches of Fife, an area I have come to know
intimately since my activities in East Neuk renovating a house. Next week, my
last on UK soil for a few months, I am back there to tile a new bathroom during
the next phase of the project. I quite like tiling; it is sort of therapeutic –
a bit like playing Tetris, only with real things. I feel like writing to Mr
Portillo and mentioning that it is a shame all those Victorian builders never
had spirit-levels in their day, which would have saved me considerable effort
as I do my best to redress the
verticals. If I have learned one thing as a DIY builder, nothing shows up the
poor geometry more than square tiles. Hopefully I am still on track to get the top
two floors knocked into something habitable before the American tourists arrive
in nearby St Andrews for the British Open golf tournament July, although
organising my diary to achieve that also seems like a game of Tetris just now.
I will admit, I am secretly
looking forward to getting back to our house, for a little more space and a
garden where the dogs can take themselves for a walk. Springtime is my
favourite time of year and the one in France starts quite a bit earlier than
its Scottish counterpart, where the daffs will already be in bloom and the
early blossom considering its advance. On the subject of daffodils, I have a
couple of observations. One - I note through the press that supermarkets have
recently been advised not to display their daffodil buds within a 100 feet of
the vegetable aisle as shoppers have been mistaking them for food. This I find
highly amusing, as the bulbs in question are quite poisonous, thus deeming it a
mistake they would hardly make twice. How many times should we have to save the
idiots from themselves? Let them out of the asylum, I say, so natural selection
can have its way.
On another daft-daff note, we
spent an enjoyable evening in a restaurant a few weeks ago watching that grand
old derby, England versus Wales rugby. In Scotland, it is nothing new to hear
the majority of the assembled viewers cheering on the allied Welsh against us
Anglos, but did the place really have to put a vase of daffodils on every table
in a show of solidarity? I have to admit that, after the splendidly crushing result,
I ate mine in a show of defiant belligerence! It was quite nice too and has
almost inspired me to write a cookbook on edible flowers. Obviously sautéed daff
bulbs will only be on the menu in Cardiff!
