Horns
Visits from Mamusia and the Polish contingent brighten our times here. From the second she arrives there is a flurry of activity, from cooking to complete reorganisation of the kitchen. Mamusia spends much of her time with her glasses on, digging in the attic amongst all the books and furniture which belong to the landlady. She periodically comes running down the stairs with dusty books in her hands, asking which one I think is valuable. She is on a hunt for the biały kruk25 which she is certain she can sense amongst the cobwebs. A Polish Mamusia is a wonderful asset, she has an answer for everything and an innate knowing of how things should be (whether one should wear their hair up or down, how many times a day to feed animals, how to lose weight, the meaning of life – the list is endless). I often wonder if all this information is downloaded from the collective wisdom of our species when a woman becomes a Mamusia (I am counting on this, which is probably why I would like to have five children!)
On account of there being no replies to Caine’s lonely-heart advert, the nine-year bachelor, (well perhaps not completely, but nothing long-lasting), is still in search of a companion, perhaps even a bride as he is getting too old to play hard to get. After the last disastrous attempt at match-making, we decided not to be too hasty. It seems that dog-courtship like our own, needs time to blossom into something different – whether this ends with; a smile (display of sharp teeth), complete indifference, or some frolicking in the grass rests on the delicate matter of body-language. The search continues …
22 Diminutive of Mum in Polish, Mummy
23 Polish chicken soup
24 Wholegrains
25 A very valuable old book
Caine Meets His Match and Zosia Ponders on Scottish Soil
The Falls of the River Clyde at New Lanark
Instead of waking up to the smell of percolating coffee and hot chocolate for my darling Scotsman, I find myself nervously reaching for a cigarette and listening for sounds of life from the other room. Despite our knowledge on dealing with issues; namely airing problems on the line, we have been taking them as they arise, to separate bedrooms for a night of sulking… Nothing. William must have already gone to work. It is a lonely morning walk with the dogs for me, full of speculation on what he is thinking, when he will come home and how we will melt the ice. I throw myself into ‘housewife’ tasks to escape my thoughts. After a long wait and much fretting, William walks into the kitchen. We both try to remain composed because the moment feels like it requires severity, so we turn our faces away to smile (because really, we are pleased to see each other). Slowly we begin to talk, awkwardly at first, testing the waters – is it safe to be vulnerable? It is a unanimous decision and we clear the air.
As Ladyholm becomes a repository for our memories, slowly collecting our laughter, tears and moments, I think about how many other peoples’ fates these walls hold. Our neighbour, a charming old man who lives just over the bridge quenched our curiosity with some local knowledge. A mother and daughter lived at Ladyholm until a disagreement led them not to speak to each other for years and the daughter emigrated to Australia. She refuses to sell the house, insisting on renting it until she passes, when she wishes it to be donated to charity. It is interesting how attached to sentiment we are – she is loath to let go of the memory of the house – yet she is too elderly to ever return to it. I often wonder if mother and daughter gave any thought to the future receivers of the fruit when they planted the apple tree in the garden – soon to be the only living thing which bears the fruit of their lives.
Now we have become familiar with the place, I have begun to observe the neighbours and I am wondering if the people make the place, or vice-versa? We have situated ourselves in our vision of paradise; rolling green hills, ancient twisted trees and wide open spaces which dwarf our existence. Yet, rather than the cheery, ruddy-cheeked country-folk I imagined to inhabit these pastures, I find our hamlet to be composed of eccentric and mysterious individuals. The farmer for example, who drives his tractors at seventy miles per hour around tiny country lanes, wearing an expression which suggests he only eats raw lemons and he would rather-run-you-down-than-stop-for-you-if the law did not expressly forbid it. I also spotted the Lady of the near-by manor at the petrol station. She sat, clasping her hands over her purse, in her lap in a vintage BMW, waiting for the man I know to be her ex-husband (thanks to the neighbour); they continue living together although they are now divorced. She is a beautiful and dignified blonde woman; in white driving gloves and a silent inaccessibility she wears around her like a crown. Her ex-husband seems a gentle man whom we once chanced upon, happily cutting the bushes to make park-like paths between fields where we walk our dogs. I had often wondered who maintained these secret gardens only for the pleasure of the rabbits and foxes.
When I first moved to Scotland at eighteen, having finished college, I imagined that I would find a land full of beautiful and courageous Mel Gibsons, as in Braveheart. Unfortunately, this was not the case. My father lives near an uneventful and grey town (I was of course comparing it to London), which is considered rather large because ‘it has shops on both sides of the road’! This was a complete culture shock and I came face-to-face with the reality of people who far from living the country dream, live in city-sized houses or flats, surrounded by wilderness. They have none of the quirks of city life; one disco, a few pubs, a handful of shops and none of the advantages of country life with small or non-existent gardens. In this corner of the world the government pays for people to complete their driving licence, because without one, it is impossible to live.
Leaving London was traumatic; my Mama, Wujek26, best friend and Russian sweetheart, all lined up on the pavement outside my shared flat. My father, having driven all the way from Scotland in his Range Rover was thoroughly excited by the prospect of taking his daughter home to live with him for the first time since my parents separated many years earlier. Unfortunately, looking back with the 20:20 vision of hindsight, this cannot have been the joyful homecoming he was envisioning. I was distraught; rivulets of mascara were coursing down my face at the thought of leaving behind my beloved family and friends. My trusty border terrier Bertie accompanied me on this adventure. As I waved goodbye to the people who had been the main characters in my life, I could not have known that I was waving goodbye to the protagonist who was to transform in the Scottish borders.
It turns out that I was not too far fetched with those fantasies of Braveheart, it just took a few years to find. On a routine trip to the Tesco in our nearest big town, I discovered that I was rubbing shoulders with history – on the main street in the town of Lanark, there stands a statue of William Wallace himself. The plaque on the same church testifies to holding the marriage ceremony of Wallace and his beloved Marion Braidfute. Wallace was an outlaw and it seems after further research, a bit of a rogue-cum-national hero, so how did the younger son of a Scottish Knight gain a title of notoriety through history? Scotland was conquered in 1296 by the English. Unsurprisingly, resentments did not take long to surface as many Scottish nobles were imprisoned, taxed and expected to serve King Edward I. In the revolts that broke out all over Scotland, William Wallace became a leader by slaying William Heselrig, the English Sheriff of Lanark. Many other military successes against the English followed and Wallace was knighted and named ‘Guardian of Scotland’ for his achievements. Naturally, the English history books chronicle Wallace as a brutal and barbarous outlaw, because history is written by the victorious.27
For variety in socialising, we walk Caine along the very banks of the Clyde where Wallace took shelter from the British. On one of these walks, secretly hoping that Caine would find a girlfriend, I strayed into New Lanark and discovered the legacy of Robert Owen. Owen was a social pioneer who believed in the equal education of all men, discounting race, colour or creed. He not only envisioned an egalitarian model of society, but he went a long way towards creating it by establishing New Lanark as a model community. Owen created a version of the Industr
ial Revolution which was mutually advantageous. New Lanark was the first to have an Infant School, a crèche for working mothers, free medical care and comprehensive education. The inhabitants of the town also benefited from concerts, dancing and nature.28 It is well worth a visit, attracting many tourists each year and offering an award winning visitor centre.
The little houses are identical and plaques with Owen’s creed are to be found around each corner, one reads: “It is therefore in the interest of all that everyone, from birth, should be well educated, physically and mentally, that society may be improved in its character.” Unfortunately, many of the Scots are guilty of perpetuating the hatred of the English. I was recently at a Highland dance organised for tourists, in which my cousin, a professional student of ballet was participating. The show was traditional, filled with the haunting and resounding chime of bag pipes and punctuated by anti-English jokes. Although these never fail to draw a laugh from the tourists, I am wondering if there is any point in propagating a history so bloody and so far behind us. Thankfully I have not come across many negative responses once I open my mouth, which cannot hide its London roots. Scottish people on the whole are very friendly and charming with their reputably sexy accents. The Scots were once a famed fearless and tribal society whose power lay in their courage and strong family bonds. Why is it that heroes such as Braveheart are all anyone remembers and not the prophetic Robert Owens?
Our darling dog Caine has found love at last. Apparently all those years of bachelor status did nothing to reduce his charm and good looks, his lady is named Blue and she is a twenty-month old black and tan bitch. Caine, the old devil surprised us by finding such a young mate compatible. Blue came to us as a rescue from the Doberman Welfare Association, she could no longer be kept in her home because her sister, a brown Doberman like Caine, was neurotic, which resulted in fighting and vet’s bills for her former owner. Blue’s desire for closeness is illustrated by her constant attempts to climb into Caine’s bed with him. Unfortunately we have not made this particularly easy for them because Blue’s bed is in the pantry and Caine’s is not big enough for the two of them. Watching them in their developing relationship has been a privilege, as their issues reflect our own. William and I were very speedy in taking the step of moving in together in our ‘experiment’. The advantage of this is that we are still learning so much about each other. The disadvantage of this is that we are still learning so much about each other!
Proximity and the joys of cohabiting, eating off one another’s plates and taking up the whole bed delight and dismay both Caine and his master. Clearly Blue assumes that Caine desires the same amount of closeness as she does, which leads her to follow him from his bed to hers where he craves to be left alone. This is where his lifetime (nine years) of solitude begins to show. On the human dimension, it seems that there are similar disparities – everyone is from a different home and has various ideas about how things should be. Whilst I know I am a messy person, I despise dirt. I used to joke with Mama about our perfect house – it would be almost bare of furniture, certainly have no wardrobes but a lot of floor space and the occasional chair for thrown clothes to opportunely land on!
I am discovering that William may not share the same fantasy, as he has begun to express some displeasure at my idea of ‘tidy’. Thankfully, we both have similar hygiene standards and William is extremely domesticated, loving cooking and not being shy of cleaning. I definitely belong to the ‘hamster’ category of people who are unable to throw away accumulated ‘stuff’; everything from useless gifts, sentimental nick-knacks and old receipts. William on the other hand has spent many years living the minimalist dream in bachelor pads. There is clearly some adjusting to do. If we want to live together, how are we going to do it? The much over-used solution for happiness – compromise springs to mind, but how exactly does it happen? It is not enough to make a commitment to be more understanding. How do we reach a solution that is workable for us both? I am thrown into pontificating on the nature of relationships. When we love, does the detail of a person enrich that love, or is it merely an accompaniment?
There have been a few lover’s tiffs on the way, but now it seems that a solid love has grown between Caine and Blue. We have been camping, shown Blue the sea for the first time and watched them hunting. It seems that Blue – far smaller and faster on her feet than Caine, is a formidable hunter, almost every walk culminates in a poor, timorous beastie breathing it’s last breath between Blue’s razor sharp teeth. She seeks out, she pursues and she makes the kill, hunting anything in her path from; baby birds fallen from the nest, complacent rabbits, sluggish grouse and hedgehogs, who (rightly) think they are safe. Due to her exceptionally soft mouth, she will and does carry the curled up and spiky creatures all the way home, where at last, she has to admit defeat – there is no way to penetrate that ball of spikes!
It seems that in a domestic setting, Blue is the boss, commanding any bed she pleases and even eating out of Caine’s bowl, which we deemed unfair and separate rooms for eating have become a must if poor Caine is not to end up on a diet. Although, Blue may be trying to prove a point – Caine is rather chunky! However, once we leave the house the roles reverse and Caine becomes the unquestionable ‘Boss’ – once contented to pick up and crunch long-dead rabbits(much to our disgust), he now watches Blue make the kill and runs over for the lion’s share. Blue immediately gives up her bounty and moves away. She will not return or bother her man until he is quite finished, at which point she is allowed over to investigate for any left-overs. The arrangement works rather well in Caine’s favour, though the price is sharing his territory, especially his bed – “Hmmm, this gender role reversal with woman-as-bread-winner movement is rather good” – Caine thinks to himself! Walks are once again the pleasure of the day and Caine rewards us with an extra spring in his step and appreciative looks as he parades majestically in front of Blue.
In a bid of war against my lack of knowledge on wine, thanks to Mamusia, I have acquired some useful materials, which I have taken to consulting with a glass of wine in hand on an evening. I now know that Pinot Noir is the new craze, though not the cheapest option out there, you should expect to pay around £7-£8 for a good bottle and you need not go for the French variety as Chile and Southern Australia are also producing enticing offerings.
As much as I adore my country existence, there are occasional moments when I wonder what on earth I am doing in the middle of nowhere and how I ever thought I could survive here – far away from everything! It is in these moments, harried by the fluttering of my young heart, that I seek refuge on a bench at the foot of the garden where I can hear the river flowing, often in the company of a cigarette and a (well chosen) glass of wine. William’s sanctuaries are trips on the motorbike, where he goes I can only wonder, but he returns sometimes after an hour, sometimes after a day’s trip, refreshed and full of energy.
Blue and Caine
Caine and Blue in his bed
As I sit looking out into the viridescence of Scotland, I notice that not one but three families of birds have colonised our roof. I am thrilled because I believe this to be an auspicious sign of good fortune and their twitters are to be heard each morning. The smatterings of their droppings are not as lovely, but I am willing to deal with this side-effect. The advent of new life raises my spirits and reminds what time of year it is, because the weather would have me believe otherwise. The summer has been disappointing, the mornings usually bode well and invite dresses, but the afternoons bring downpours which swell our river. When we are lucky, the whole family (William, myself, Blue and Caine) all sit outside and enjoy our garden before the midges arrive and annoy us out of our serenity and sanity. Despite our eco-dreams, we have not quite managed self-sufficiency. Our own (plentiful) potatoes and courgettes alone cannot sustain us and we are forced to join the consumerist ways of our denaturalised society in a weekly stock-up at the shops.
However, some anonymous bundles have been arriving with our post,
which have sustained us in our ‘mission’. Every couple of weeks, tiny bundles appear, tied to the fence with our letters. The house is still very much a work in progress and a letter box has not made it to the top of the priority list yet, so we can see the squares of coarse linen, tied together with brown string from the bedroom upstairs. Each one contains tiny seeds, perfectly formed, of all shapes and colours, which put jelly beans to shame. At first, we thought it was a prank by our friends, but everyone swears to ignorance on the matter and it has been going on too long to be a joke. We are left wondering, by whose hand and with what intention these ‘gifts’ are appearing. Despite the mystery, we take encouragement from them and they warm some silent recesses of our hearts as we feel deeply encouraged in our daring to try a different lifestyle.
We are working on the fundamental issues which face men and women in relationships. As a teenager I always believed that age aided us in knowing when it is the right time to work things through and when it is the right time to say ‘goodbye’. Unfortunately, as I look around, it seems many people gain from age an ability to close their hearts sooner and say ‘goodbye’ quicker, without any of the blind idealism and hope of youth which is necessary to maintain the magic of love. I am learning that talking lengthily about issues is the greatest testament to commitment. Every crossroads we come to provides us with the opportunity to walk another step deeper into facing the other and ultimately ourselves, because the other is a beautiful mirror for us, reflecting all our shortcomings and our qualities. The spare room has been banished as a method of avoiding issues, with a heavy padlock which can be opened by two keys. Hopefully we have learned a lesson and we soldier on…
Scotland and Aye Page 3