Excuses, excuses

Just been on a little trip down Ipswich way, where I used to live. It was mainly distinguished by the variety of train delays. There has been severe weather of course: cue a couple of hours running very slowly past some wet fields near Grantham. Then there has been a derailment on a bridge near Ely, which is proving very tricky to sort out, as some empty trucks are hanging above the river. And how do you get a crane in to such a marshy landscape to lift them out? Over to some Network Rail engineers.

And this morning, coming back via Cambridge to avoid the derailment, we were held up by a swan on the line.

Right inheritance

I'm currently enjoying Joan Fisher Box's biography of her dad, the statistician R.A. Fisher. It's impossible to study stats without getting to know something about him, but the full story is even more interesting. One surprise for modern readers is his activity in the field of eugenics. At this point we all shuffle nervously, because as modern liberal citizens we don't talk about that embarrassing stuff any more. Fisher talked about it a lot though. He served on a Royal Commission in the early 30s on the problem of the number of mental patients, which much exercised the government of the day. Their final report suggested a program of sterilisation (albeit voluntary). That was about as close as we got in this country to fully fledged eugenic laws. It was ignored by the government and that was that.

Reading the wikipedia article on eugenics filled in some fascinating detail. I liked the Nazi justification of their eugenic policies by the great success that many US states were already having with their own version.

That wet stuff's a bitch

Monsoon-like conditions greeted me this morning. Fleshmarket Close had a burn running down it. I more-or-less dried out on the train, but then Glasgow was about as wet.

Coming home was dry until I got to Newington, when there was a fresh cloudburst. I sheltered in a close (or was it a pend?) with some bewildered tourists.

Nature watch

We've not had any bird watching for a while...

From the office window I can see that some seagulls have raised chicks on one of the rooftops opposite. They are nondescript balls of grey feathers, which hides them rather well against the gravel covering of the flat roof that their parents have made home. All this in the block next to Central Station, and about eight floors above the traffic. No doubt they are being raised on fish supper remnants and discarded kebab.

We hear a lot of bleating about the fragility of the natural world, but some of it is incredibly tough.

It's Monday, bah!

This weekend was the last Munro party of an old friend, so there was a gathering of aging reprobates in Glencoe. Dave's last hill was Stob na Broige, at the other end of the Buachaille from his first, Stob Dearg. A pleasing symmetry. The day was miserable, as is standard for such events.

My boots died on the last part of the walk out. I think they're going in the bin.

Back to the Kingy for a meal and ritual abuse of the other walkers we met (Did ye see that guy? What a twat!).

Great to meet some old faces again, after too long a gap.

A Sunday of gentle rain and reminiscences followed.

Aarrgghh!

I thought I had become accustomed to how crap the drama and comedy on Radio 4 can be, but Blood in the Bridal Shop plumbed new depths. Variously described as a drama and a comedy, this really was dire. I enjoy a challenge sometimes, and decided to listen to all 15 minutes of it rather than switching off at the end of Front Row, as I would normally. This felt a bit like trying to hold your breath underwater: you end up diving for the off switch with bursting lungs.

War art

A couple of exhibitions recently have pointed me to the work of Edward Baird (1904-1949), a little-known painter from Montrose. When I visited Kelvingrove last, I found his Unidentified aircraft, which feels as strong in its way as any of the images in the Imperial War Museum. He also had some work in the recent exhibition of works from the McManus in Dundee: a fine portrait of his father in law playing chess with ghostly pieces. Neither of these can be found on the web, so you'll have to take my word for it. He suffered from ill health and died fairly young, before he could complete much of what he was obviously capable.

My musings on Baird came from visiting the Dean and Modern Art galleries yesterday. They have quite a nice show of graphic work from WW I in a corridor, with German on one wall and British on the opposite wall. Odd how the German work looks much stronger (Otto Dix, Max Beckmann) that the victors. Is this just because we've been trained to see it in terms of the original work that these artists later did? Whereas Augustus John's stock has rather diminished, and who now would want to look at his rather limp and unfocussed image? The work by Eric Kennington still looks good, though he could be illustrating anything.

At the circus

More signs that I am working inside a le Carre novel: somebody today told me that they were sending me something via the "overnight bag".

Fellow traveller

I wondered what the woman on the train was fumbling with in her bag. There was something furry in there. As we waited to get off, a fancy rat popped its head out and had a good look around. I wonder where she had taken it.

If in doubt, eat chips

I bought chips on my way home tonight, and entered the close with a nice warm newsprint-wrapped parcel and a sense of anticipation. At the top of the stairs I was unable to open my front door. How odd: the key just won't turn in the lock. Peering through the keyhole, I can see that part of the lock is out of line. I've no idea how that happened, but it is. I instantly get a vision of an evening spent phoning for locksmiths, waiting for locksmiths in the drizzle, paying locksmiths, explaining to the landlords what has happened...

Call me shallow-minded, but at this point I decide that I might as well eat my greasy food while it's hot. I do so, and very fine it is too. I then have "one last try" at the door, and it opens.

Hills, Mottes, Poles

A pleasant return trip to Biggar in the Clyde valley, this time to ascend Tinto Hill. A lot of walking across farmland and along disused railways (and why did the Borders lose quite so many lines?) was involved.

If you've been paying attention, you'll have guessed that while hills may form the stated reasons for my trips, the real interest can come from many other areas. The Coulter Motte was on my route, and it is a fine example of a site that is historic but not actually much to look at. If the word "castle" conjours up for you vast curtain walls, bristling with fenestrations and drawbridges, then go and look at this. It's a not-very-big heap of earth which once had a wooden building on top. This must have been about as small as you could make a motte and bailey castle without being laughed at. I wonder if it was just impossible not to build this way in the 12th century, in the same way that Scots baronial seems to have been expected in the 19th.

And in 1940, General Sikorski reviewed the Polish forces in exile from a stance in Biggar main street. So there.

On my doorstep

Spent a pleasant hour or so this morning in the Meadows watching the start and finish of the Edinburgh 10K race. It's hard to ignore really, as I can lie in bed and hear the PA system, albeit in garbled form. Interesting to see the range of body types and running styles. Of course the top runners all look much the same. I do wonder if the elite men are shorter than the elite women, or was it just the ones I saw?

Continued fine weather

Yesterday's outing was to Kinlochleven. Despite a lot of hanging around the West Highlands with scruffy climbers about 15 years ago, I had never begun a walk here. My companions were set on a Corbett nearby, while I took the chance to ascend Sgurr Eilde Mor. And very fine it was too. Not a lot of wildlife, other than two ptarmigan and a large party of wrinklies. Despite the hill's name, there were no deer.

The Cobbler from the shelter stone

Emptying my camera of images, I found this from a couple of weeks ago. The bright hazy day made it hard to tell if the picture was any good at the time. And I felt oddly disinclined to blog afterwards.

Gay Rumsfeldian surrealism

That's the opinion of one of Prospect's reviewers about 300. A neat summary, indeed.

The writer points out that basing a film on a graphic novel is to distance the work rather too much from reality. I wonder if this is why--other than some eye candy--I didn't much like Sin City either.

Questions at tea time

Why are there always 11 fig rolls in a packet? And why that cardboard tray? Are they all produced in the same factory?

Bad one, eh?

I've got electricians in the flat at the moment. They are bemoaning the state of the wiring and the actions of previous workmen. "Shockin' this, Andy!" Not literally, I hope. As I only rent the flat I think this is genuine and not just to convince me to shell out lots of money.

A poor effort

My reactions to Sunshine went through several phases. Firstly: Danny Boyle has made another film, isn't that great? Then I read some reviews and they were very mixed. I formed an opinion that I would hate it, as it was based on some pseudo-scientific bullshit. In the event, I didn't mind the bad science much, but it was a poor film. I couldn't get over how badly told the story was, with lots of trendy action shots that were so blurry you couldn't see what had happened. And here's a tip: if you set your film in an unfamiliar environment, try to put in some establishing shots that explain where the different scenes of the action are, rather than just confusing the hell out of the viewers. And yes, I'm thinking of that long model shot in 2001 that perfectly sets up the situation on the Discovery. There are lots of references to Alien, 2001, and Solaris, but nothing emerges that isn't done better in one of those films.

Some nice visual effects, but not enough to save the day.

Make sure you don't confuse this with the rather fine film of the same name that I discussed a wee while back.

Come and get them!

I rather enjoyed 300 last night. Some fantastic images, and some ridiculous distorted history. One aspect that I see some others have picked up on is the portrayal of Xerces the drag queen with his painted eyebrows and lots of bling. Nothing wrong with that in itself, but we do end up with Thermopylae being seen as a clash of two gay stereotypes. Given the film's avoidance of some of the other habits of Spartans, this seemed odd.

The Spartans were a bunch of asocial nutters who happened to do something useful in 480BC. This could have made an interesting film. Trying to cast them as saviours of freedom is a bit of a sick joke. The War Nerd says it better though.

My Saturday

I'd been grumbling a lot about not getting a chance to do much walking in the West. What with living in Edinburgh and the weather frequently being better in the East, I've pretty much mined out everything along the A9, but have plenty to explore along the A82. However with lengthening days and high pressure forecast over the weekend, it seemed stupid not to do something yesterday.

I took the train to Tyndrum (that's Tyndrum Lower, for the anoraks among you), and attacked the Ben Lui group. This is another instance where in my previous walking life I've mysteriously omitted to visit to these excellent hills. I chose Oss and Dubhcraig as the somewhat easier pairing, but these hills seem to have a scale that is not only measured in meters, and it was no pushover. Ben Lui tended to dominate the whole day, blocking the end of the glen in a rather Alpine fashion that few British mountains can emulate. The picture above is from Ben Oss. The high pressure haze meant that few more distant hills could be seen, which is a pity, but it was sunny for virtually the whole day, and that's not common, you know.

An hour or so before the train arrived was pleasantly spent in the Real Food Cafe in Tyndrum. And no, I'm not writing a gazeteer of West Highland eateries.