Scotland and Aye

by Sophia Wasiak Butler

  54 Treitel,

  How to Beat the Winter Blues

  My Uncle and I

  The apocalyptic prophecies of the ancient Mayans have had an unexpected effect on travel. If the world is going to end in 2012, then the time for seeing it is now! As the people of the UK deal with the new face of the land revealed by the exiting snow, which is muddy and grey and a recession which shows no sign of lifting, holidays have moved from being a luxury to a necessity. The logic of using these apocalyptic tales as a marketing tool overwhelms me, but Thomson and First Choice Travel are encouraging us to book a break using this strategy. In these credit crunch times, we would prefer to sacrifice a new home appliance or car in favour of a getaway. In fact, a recent report showed that four out of five people were not changing their holiday plans because of the recession; however, package holidays are experiencing a boost as we hunt for value for money.

  A blast of sun is a sensible investment if we are to avoid Seasonal Affective Disorder, or S.A.D. which affects an estimated half a million people per year between September and April. A lack of the sun’s rays can lead to a deficiency of vitamin D and serotonin which regulates sleeping patterns, appetite and even libido. It is not surprising then, that Brits crave foreign climates to keep depression at bay. It is perhaps also why we can be seen stripping off the second a ray of sunshine appears in the sky! Our pagan ancestors practised the art of balance, worshipping each element and recognising its importance, with sun and water receiving special dues as the givers of life.

  As a child I remember that the yearly or biennial family calendar was well planned once I was old enough to participate. Winters were broken up with a skiing trip in Europe, Easters were spent in Florida visiting our family in America and soaking up the sun and summers were spent in Poland. Being included in Mama’s mid-Winter ‘spa’ trip was exciting, though it sounds more luxurious than it was.

  Polish sanatoriums are available to everyone at affordable prices and still seem to have far more advanced systems for wellness than many over-priced alternatives. The concept of them is unique, the state subsidises a three week stay for each citizen every two years, where prevention of illness is the focus. Nothing can beat places like Ustrón and Busko Zdrój and their most advanced treatment in rejuvenation called cryo-therapy which involves standing in a freezing chamber in temperatures of -120º for 3-5 minutes, clad in a swim suit, thick gloves, a headband and wooden clogs. Some sanatoriums have their own healing waters and sources of mineral mud called borowina in which you can bathe or be wrapped. At the other end of the relaxation scale is the most extreme treatment which is used in psychiatric wards and prisons; it is needless to say, anything but pleasant. After stripping down, you cling to large metal handles at one end of a tiled room, while at the other end, the executor blasts your body with both hot and cold water jets under extremely high pressure. Funny that it’s called bicze szkockie55, when no Scot I know has ever heard of it. Apparently it is said that the reason for the name comes from the stereotype of the Scots of being slow to put their hands in their pockets and so the therapy uses both cold and hot jets to save on the water bill!56 These sanatoriums encapsulate the spirit of elderly Polish people; despite aching limbs, shortness of breath, artificial joints and Zimmer frames, they can still be found at the post-dinner tea dance enjoying innocent romances.

  I prefer to worship my health and body in a Polish sanatorium, than subject myself to the questionable luxury of more glamorous spas where beautiful people pamper themselves with rose petals in the bath tub, hot-stone massages and chocolate body wraps. However, I recognise that these places have their function; if our body is our temple, then we need to find a place to nurture it. When you are living life on fast-forward it can be difficult to hit the pause button. The holistic world shouts about the evils of stress: holidays help, but to really unwind we need to turn off our phones and laptops and pamper ourselves, with whatever works.

  As I reach into my memory of skiing holidays, the habit of hitting the slopes in winter was born on a childhood trip to the Austrian Kitzbühel resort. The trip was under the spiritual guidance of Ksiadz Kukla57 and the venue, none other than a local monastery. Needless to say, our troop of Polish mothers and children did not sample the fashionable après ski bars and nightlife spots! We began and ended each day in a small chapel with a prayer. The mornings proceeded with drinking spoonfulls of ‘Amol’58 with sugar (under duress) and the joys of ski school absorbed and exhausted us well into the afternoon. I remember the homely atmosphere and joy of sharing the evening meal, accompanied by endless cups of tea and a sense of belonging created by Father Kukla. He was not only much loved by us, but also admired as an accomplished skier.

  Since I had no intention of showing off my ‘Christmas’ hips in Barbados (or even Tenerife) this year; I slipped my feet into fur-lined moon-boots, put on a Russian hat, Killy stirrup pants and leather-trimmed white sunglasses. Just add lip-gloss and attitude, I thought, even doing a snow-plough will look sensational (I wish!) In response to the question: ‘Are you a good skier?’ I must admit that what I lack in technique, I make up for in enthusiasm and brute force. I decided to reconnect with my passion for the Italian and Swiss Alps. What could be better than standing at the top of the Mighty Matterhorn 4, 500 metres above sea level, wondering how on earth I will negotiate the descent, high on adrenaline and lungfuls of pure air?! Exhilarated, dizzy and trembling with fear from the downhill run, this is where I feel most alive and truly humbled by Mother Nature. The promise of a hot meal sustains me on the descent – forget cordon bleu and nouvelle cuisine, Italy is all about mountain basics. Italy, I salute your celebration of carbohydrates! Trattorias are packed with people feasting on pizza and pasta, twirling spaghetti around their forks and sipping prosecco absolutely guilt-free! Although no one ever talks about diets on skiing holidays, the physical exhaustion, oxygenation of the brain and renewal of the cells always promotes a sense of health and well-being lasting well into the year.

  As the financial storm in Britain worsens, the mass exodus of city high flyers increases as they seek refuge in the tax-free oases of the Swiss mountains. Let’s hope the ‘hard-done by’ bankers do not cause a perennial avalanche with their insatiable appetite for glitz and cash. When we start to see stocks and shares, pounds and euros marked in the snow, we’ll know it is time to hang up our skis for good and head for the beach. As usual, money talks, but do we need that noise in the silence of the snow-capped mountains?

  55 Hydrotherapy with water jets

  56 http://regeneracja.poradnikzdrowie.pl/rehabilitacja/bicze-szkockie-meto-da-wskazania-dzialanie_44200.html

  57 Priest/Father

  58 A herbal remedy for all ills, loved by Polish mothers for more than a 100 years

  A Lesson in Love from Hamish

  Caine and Blue

  ‘Love’ is defined as ‘an intense feeling of deep affection for someone’ in the Oxford Concise English dictionary. Something about this multifaceted emotional state makes us all crave to be in it or be the object of it. As young girls on lunch breaks, we used to sit on the grass, pulling out the petals of daisies: ‘Does he love me, does he not?’ If we didn’t like the answer we simply started on the next one. If only the whole business of love were as simple as plucking daisies! If you live in India or the Middle Eastern countries, you will not be celebrating Valentine’s Day, because it has been banned by the authorities for sexual and Christian overtones.

  The Scots are a romantic bunch at heart and traditional Valentine’s celebrations were rather grand. An equal number of males and females would attend a party; all names would go into a hat, to be drawn in pairs. The couple chosen together would be each other’s companion for a night of dancing and an exchange of gifts.59 In Japan, as a boyfriend or husband, you can expect home-made chocolate from the special ladies in your life, showing your appreciation on March 14th when men give women presents. Young Korean singles can be seen gathered
together on April 14, ‘Black Day’ sharing the black Jajangmyeon dish which gives the day its name.60

  On the subject of matrimony, tradition dictates that a woman can ask a man to marry her on February 29th, which occurs every four years. This practice is said to have originated in 5th century Ireland, when St Bridget complained to St Patrick about women’s extensive waiting for a man to propose. Once again we find the Scots to be romantic of heart, as in 1288 a law was supposedly passed allowing women to propose. It details that if the man should decline, he must pay a fine; ranging between a kiss, a silk dress or a pair of gloves for the heartbroken maiden.61 Who said the law is devoid of feeling? Or humour for that matter; if you did not show up in the Liverpool courts, you can be expecting a poem from the Metropolitan Police: ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, you’ve got a warrant and we’d love to see you’!62

  As a girl, Mama always used to write me cards with a little chocolate enclosed. Every Valentine’s Day, whether in a relationship or single, we focus on the concept of universal love. It is too easy for us to be seduced by ‘Hallmark holidays’ and think that this day actually symbolises what card companies say – ‘If he didn’t get you flowers then he doesn’t love you’. Come on, there are 365 days in the year when he can buy you flowers, take you for dinner and tell you he loves you! Do not misunderstand me – I am NOT making a case against roses and chocolate! I am simply a girl, afraid that the whole scenario will pass me by as I sit on my ‘worry bench’, wearing my good-luck orange beret and tons of anxiety whilst puffing on my rolled cigarette!

  I hear the gate lightly knock as it is pushed back into place. Since the dogs have not stopped the intruder, it must a friend. Hamish soundlessly greets them and sits next to me on my bench. No words are needed to convey my emotional state. “I just don’t see the point of the emotional rollercoaster of relationships, it’s so hard, how do people do it?” I explode. Silence descends as if I had not spoken and when Hamish speaks his voice sounds remote: “The path of true love is long and steep, so you had better get yourself some good shoes my girl.” I can’t help but laugh at this as my eyes go straight to Hamish’s feet; barely covered by his homemade leather moccasins. So begins my first formal lesson in love:

  “In our culture people are starved of love. We watch endless films about happy and unhappy love, we listen to hundreds of trashy songs about it – yet hardly anyone thinks that there is anything to be learned about loving. Most people see the problem as one of being loved, rather than of one’s capacity to love. We aim to make ourselves ‘loveable’; by being popular, wealthy and having sex appeal. Just as living is an art, so is loving; we must proceed in the discipline as with any other such as music or carpentry. Despite the deep longing for love we all have, most people fail because almost everything else is considered more important than the art: success and so on. This practice requires discipline, concentration, patience, faith, courage, the ability to take risks and readiness to accept pain and disappointment.”

  With an air of authority, Hamish leaves the bench and traverses the hall; pinning some scraps of paper to it – here we go, I thought he’s turning preacher! Completely unfazed by my hostile attitude, Hamish pointed, as if a lecturer in an auditorium; packed to the brim with eager ears; “In the Book of Jonah, God explains that the essence of love is labour; the two are inseparable.” The second battered piece of yellowed paper held the words of Saint-Exupéry’s Fox to the Little Prince: “It is the time you lavished on your rose that makes it so important”; if she doesn’t get the biblical one, she will get the modern parable – I am sure Hamish thought. Crafty old goat!63

  He finished his lecture and disappeared; it worked for the Little Prince, but how am I going to translate that into the fast and often thoughtless pace of everyday life? I am thrown into thinking about the writings of Khalil Gibran; ‘Even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you’; ‘Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning’.64 Is love synonymous with pain? The beautiful rose, our symbol of affection was born of Aphrodite’s woe when her tears mingled with blood from her lover’s wound.

  Gone is the old University ethos: the ‘anti-Valentine’ party, which was all about friends and nothing to do with couples or singles. We reasoned that on Valentine’s, you are likely to end up sitting at a tiny table in between two other couples, having to listen to their conversations while paying double for your dinner just because it’s Valentine’s Day.

  I caught the end of an old Sex and the City episode the other night and found myself completely disillusioned – Samantha went from outrageous to pathetic and the pursuit of love through sex could be dismissed by nursery school children nowadays; “It’s not gonna work, even if you are decked out in Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks!” Was it a fanciful escape into such frivolities that made the show appealing, or do we simply live in a grittier reality now with forensic shows like Crime Scene Investigation as the champions of the channels?

  Hamish returns and plucks me from my maelstrom of thoughts, by presenting me with a bunch of twigs and mossy grasses. “Burn these inside, they protect well against damp, you’ve some in the house.” I am distracted but he regains my attention with the second bundle; a leaf with something inside, tied in a ball with long strands of grass. “Now this is for your muffins, simmer it in water and then add to the mix.” Our relationship with Hamish has mutual benefits, he gets fed and I am taught old knowledge. Whenever I am distressed, I bake my way through it, often the fruits of my nerves are so numerous that I take them along to the local pub where my friend and compatriot Marta works. The dogs sit patiently, waiting for the chance to lick up the ends of the mix and a warm fragrant muffin each, for keeping an eye on them so vigilantly!

  The milieu of the evening cannot but arrest my attention; the dogs are particularly sweet with each other, nuzzling ears, licking noses and singing little whiney numbers to one another, occasionally looking up to gaze at us adoringly. I notice that William is especially attentive, amorous and expressive. Ladyholm is a picture of calm and domestic harmony – perhaps the fragrant grasses and herbs burning in the front hall have created the ambience? Has Hamish initiated me into witchcraft?!

  I stop in to see a lonely Marta. There are enough muffins to go round and I offer them to everyone present, even the ‘let’s not mention the chickens’ neighbour. “You know you have this image in your head of the perfect man?” I notice her accent is picking up the Scottish twang. “Yeah, I never thought mine wouldn’t have olive skin and curly black hair!” I reply. “Well exactly, I think it’s so funny because you can find yourself suddenly drawn to someone so different”; it occurs to me that she is running her finger around the edge of a glass suspended between the washer and the shelf whilst gazing across the room at the farmer of bear-like proportions. “Oh,” I giggle, “shot by Cupid are we?!” She knows I will tease her and turns red, silently resuming her work. It turns out that as a leaving present, Kasia introduced the two after our goats incident and they have been getting on rather well ever since.

  It has to be said, ‘Love is in the air’ in our hamlet! Hamish, the old devil has staged his own version of the film Chocolat with Juliette Binoche. She seduces a whole town in her chocolaterie at lent, changing their lives with that old aphrodisiac chocolate. She works her magic and finds love with Johnny Depp – no girl in her right mind would say no to his gypsy charm! We are not quite as beautiful a cast, but the effect is the same; even the ‘chickens’ neighbour with a shotgun made an offering of some eggs by the front gate. The funny thing is, there is no way Hamish could have seen the film as he doesn’t own a television. Perhaps the old devil is secretly working on a book ‘Find True Love Between Smoke and Muffins’ and we are the test subjects!

  For those of you out there who are looking for love, do not despair, say it with a bunch of herbs! Open your hearts and eat any muffins which find their way to you! Happy Valentine’s Day!

  59 daytraditions-from-around-the-world>

  60

  61

  62
  learningenglish/language/newsaboutbritain/2009/02/090210_nab_valentine.shtml>

  63 Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince (Wordsworth Editions Limited: 1995), p. 82

  64 Khalil Gibran, The Prophet (1923)

  A Wild Goose Chase for a Book and a Whisky

  As Mother’s Day draws near, I wonder how I can best celebrate my Mama on this special occasion. Although I am categorically against commercialised ‘Hallmark holidays’ which have ceased to mean anything besides over-priced cards and flowers, this is a chance for me to honour the woman who inspired and guided me into womanhood. What a gift is a Mother! As a child, she was a mystery of glittering gems, heady perfume and a swish of dresses; undoubtedly the most glamorous and sensual woman I had ever seen. She also had the added accolade of knowing absolutely everything! I turned twenty-five this year and the quarter of a century mark demands special recognition in my life – the girl must eventually become a woman, through decisions and life circumstances, we reach a point of awareness and a way of seeing that we cannot unlearn. However, no one said it was easy.

  Mother’s Day in our family has a twist as Mama is grateful to my father and I on this day, often giving us flowers or little gifts. Without Dad, she wouldn’t have become a mother (at which point he puffs out his chest proudly), and without me, she couldn’t practise the art. She always says: “Give me another 100 years and I may become perfect at it.” I was always aware that Mama’s unconditional love has two conditions: her love may be stretched high and deep, but it must not be abused. The second condition is respect: though my mother is my closest female guide in life, she cannot be treated on the same level as a friend. In response to my very own tribal elder Hamish’s question, “Will you be baking one of your specialities?” I answer: “It’s a book I’m after, Women Who Run With the Wolves; Mama taught me to live in the way the book prescribes.”