Returned Scot

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - FOR AULD LANG SYNE

2011-01-03T00:19:00.000+01:00

There’s one man from whom I’m having terrible trouble keeping away. I hadn’t realized this until last year, but the more I write, the more this man crops up. At Hogmanay, his image is especially strong, which is odd, considering I never met him. Maybe it’s the Scot in me, but try as I might, and despite the fact that he’s been dead for over 200 years, there he is, bright as a button, a bonny lad resplendent in his cravat and tartan breeks, popping into my mind as though I’d just been having a chat with him the other day.

You will have guessed by now the gentleman in question is our national bard, a certain Robbie Burns, to whom we shall all drink a toast on Burns Night later this month. But at Hogmanay his poetic brilliance cuts me to the quick, every year and without fail, the minute I hear his big festive hit, ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

There we all were, dressed in red and tinsel, partying towards midnight. The teenagers, more stylishly clad, were at one end of the room, artfully draped across several sofas, beautiful, young, in love and oh so cool. Across the room, we parents were dancing, letting rip across the wooden floorboards in a hideous display of Dad-and-Mum-Dancing, marvellous to take part in but truly ghastly to behold. The teenagers stared, eyes glazed in horror, jaws on the floor, while their parents gyrated, shimmied, polkaed and pretselled around the Christmas tree. Limbs were cast up to the rafters, buttons burst off clothing, sweat poured from many a non-smooth brow as we made the most of our 80’s time warp. Pah, how good were we at showing those beautiful young things how to party?

And soon the moment arrived....the bells, the bells, the New Year was upon us, multiple kissing of anyone handy, and it was time to stand in a big circle and join hands for ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

And that’s when it always happens. The weeping. It’s not just me, so don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s part of being Scottish at Hogmanay, or for that matter, whenever the strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ start up, it’s natural to indulge in a wee weep. As the lyrics press upon our sentimental old hearts, we think of those we are with, of those we are without, of those around us, of those we miss and of those we have loved, and before you can say ‘my trusty fiere’, big globular tears are forming like balloons behind the eyelids.

Did Robbie know what he was doing when he first penned this one? Did he know how affecting it would still be decades, hundreds of years later? Did he know it would travel the world and persuade all manner of men to join hands in a moment of cumulative appreciation and forgiving reflection?

Although I am absolutely sure he knew exactly what he was doing in terms of poetry, he would most likely have been amazed at the lasting, world-wide fame of his lyrics. How could he ever guess that this little song would be used for so many occasions? It is sung at farewells and endings of all kinds, funerals, graduations, end of parties, Last Night of the Proms... from the former Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau’s funeral, to the formal resignation of Pakistan’s President Pervez Musharraf as his country’s Chief of Army Staff, to the video version of ‘Winnie the Pooh’. Its uses are wide and wondrous, but I can’t believe Burns wasn’t canny enough to know that his words would at least survive and remain popular to some extent. Scottish literature is littered with this particular brand of honest sentimentality, and no matter how hard, dour and gloomy we Scots might pretend to be, we’re absolute suckers for this kind of stuff. We’re a bunch of old softies and he knew it well. His mastery ensured his immortality.

When one writes, there is no knowing exactly where it might lead. And so it is with this blog. I am at a loss as to what, if anything, it has achieved so far. I hope at least it has brought a little entertainment to my greatly cherished readers in 2010. But as the New Year has dawned, other projects are beckoning, time is of the essence, and so I shall be moving into new, literary pastures. Besides which, I’m sure you all have something more interesting to be getting on with...as the TA’s granny would have pointed out, ‘it’s not buttering any parsnips.’ It seems a ‘farewell’ and an ‘ending’ of some kind is on the cards.

I cannot begin to say how grateful I have been for the polite, charming, inspired, brilliant enthusiasm with which you readers have followed this blog. Without readers, we are nothing, so if ever I have a book published, (goodness me, I spy one sitting on my desk here simply itching for the magic dust of publication to be sprinkled across its pages), you will be the first to hear, of course. So, cross your digits...I can’t help feeling it might be easier to find oil beneath the North Sea than a publisher willing to publish a new writer’s work, but there we are.

I hope you won’t forget this blog completely, and pass it on to anyone you suspect might find it even mildly interesting. Perhaps it will be restarted in a different form one day, or perhaps a new one will take its place. But for now, for auld lang syne, for old time’s sake, to those who know me and to those who are only acquainted through this blog, I thank you for your enthusiasm, and wish you all peace and every blessing for 2011.

You will be relieved to know, Returning Scot has finally arrived home.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - THE GIFTIE GIE US

2010-12-21T15:32:00.000+01:00

Just when we thought the snow had cancelled too much excitement this festive season, the moon and the sun conspired to give us one of the greatest shows on Earth...a total lunar eclipse at the Winter Solstice...last time that happened it was 1638.

I stood in the snow, looking like a red sheep in fleecy dressing-gown and furry boots, from 6.15am, watching the moon being shaved down from a perfect silver sphere to a delicate slither. Finally the last slice of silver had gone and we were presented with an astonishing copper-toned ball, the most outsanding Christmas bauble I have ever seen.

Since the same moon shines on all of us, wherever we may be, this whole event seemed other-worldly. I wondered who else might be watching...friends further south, across the North Sea, across the Atlantic, on an oil-rig, perhaps even servicemen and woman in Afghanistan....loved ones separated from each other, despite the approach of Christmas.

As people struggle to be reunited with family and friends in time for Christmas, the weather has done its level best to put hazardous obstacles in our way. The desperate frustration of those stuck in airports, stations or on the roads, the agony of those waiting at home for family to arrive, is painful to behold. I wish all those travelling a safe journey as soon as possible.

As one of our national sports appears to be a fondness for saying how rubbish we Brits are at doing anything these days, the questions have started already. We seem to be going through some kind of international embarrassment as the rest of the planet watches Britain failing to cope with unusually ferocious weather. With one Transport Minister already having had to resign here in Scotland, one wonders how many more ’heads will roll’ before we admit that Nature is bigger than us. Especially in the winter, and especially at Christmas.

Could all this frustration be the inevitable result of ‘globalisation’? Can you believe that the very concept is one that was born Aberdeen? A friend’s neighbour was the academic who came up with the word and the concept of ‘globalisation’, an idea that seems to have taken over. (By the by, if someone would invent a universal electric plug that would function in the UK, Europe and the US, I would feel ‘globalisation’ had actually achieved something.) When the current scenes at Heathrow are broadcast across the media, I can’t help wondering if we are too quick to take ‘globalisation’ for granted.

Only last night, Norwegian crime writer Jo Nesbo was on the box talking about Norway’s vast wealth, the result of a lucky oil find in the late 1960s (I’ve bored you about all that stuff way back in spring). Reflecting on how poor Norwegians had been before oil, particularly in the 1920s when so many escaped across the Atlantic, Nesbo wondered if the soul of his nation had been damaged, if not lost in some way. While no-one would advocate a return to poverty, I know there are many Norwegians who would agree that he has a point.

If one assumes the sheer number of people on the move just now is a reflection of how our world expects everything to function flawlessly in the twenty-first century, I can’t help wondering if we’re just kidding ourselves...we assume we humans are invincible. And it turns out we in the UK are not the only struggling humans...try going through Frankfurt Airport today, try flying out of Belgium, try driving in Stavanger on last week’s ice, even with snow-tyres. I suspect we Brits are not as useless as we think we are, and I know there are thousands of good-hearted folk who are valiantly working long hours and through the night to help others. We can be world-champion complainers, if we want to be. There has been many a tale of people not saying thank you, and not being helpful, but the opposite is also true. If you ask any of the Brits who work abroad or travel for business, they will be quick to tell you that the people who hate Britain more than anyone are the Brits themselves.

As Christmas arrives, our first since returning to Scotland, I am still in a state of transition, well-aware of how Norway reached under my skin in 2010. I shall be making a note that I should count my blessings more often. And next time I see the moon, and wonder what on earth we must all be looking like from up there, I’ll repeat my favourite bit of Burns;

‘Oh wad some Power the giftie gie us,

To see oursels as ithers see us.’

Whichever part of the planet you are on, settled with family or still in transit, at home or abroad, I wish you GOD JUL and A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS!

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - STARTING THE WHOLE JING-BANG

2010-12-15T16:17:00.001+01:00

As I scoff a frosted mince pie or three, topped with pointy stars, I’m wondering what it is, precisely, that marks the start of Christmas for you. Even if you are a Bah-Humbug sort of a guy, there are so many festive options that might just tip you over the edge into something sparkly.

Could it be the arrival of one’s tree, closely followed by a ‘domestic’ over how to get the lights working? Is it the sight of a paper-chain or two being blue-tacked to the office ceiling? It might be the smell of uniquely spicy concoctions wafting out of the kitchen...pepperkaker (Norsk, see above), Christmas cake, mulled wine or some non-descript experiment dreamed up by an over-enthusiastic youth.

Perhaps it’s a viewing, tissue in hand, spectacles steaming up with emotion, of the school show...who can resist melting when a five-year-old angel starts to sing? Is it the first time you shout, ‘Oh no it isn’t’ (or the opposite) at some hairy old bloke in a sticky-out dress and high heels? It might be the moment you festivify your toe-nails in a startling shade of scarlet edged with golden glitter. If you’re a bit of an old bore, it might simply be reading the papers, full as they are of the annual round-ups of Best This and That for 2010. Or maybe it’s that annual cry of frustration... ‘which fool has nicked the sellotape, I’m in the middle of something really important here, Pratt-features’.

Perhaps you are a genuinely tasteful person, and wait until an angelic choir boy sings the first strains of ‘Once In Royal David's City’ from King’s College, Cambridge on Christmas Eve itself.

Everyone has their own particular ‘Official Christmas Moment’ when the whole jing-bang kicks off and we are lost in a miasma of over-indulgence before emerging, heavier but skint, just in time for a really serious session at Hogmanay. Some of us are overly-keen and are already there ....one hard-core wassailler I know says Christmas starts when the first snow-flake falls. Ambitious, I would say....apart from being a hopeless romantic, surely THIS year he’s going to be on his knees with exhaustion by the time we reach the 25th.

I expect you have been on the absolute edge of your seat with anticipation, if not foaming at the mouth, desperate to know how our choir concert turned out. Well, as it happens, that concert, which is of course an annual village event, marks the start of Christmas for many a reveller round here. People travel miles, you know, braving all manner of hazards to delight in our dulcets. Knowing this, you can only imagine the immense burden of responsibility placed upon our choral shoulders.

Thus, we approached our Christmas Concert with reverence and glitter, decked out as we were in a classy blend of black and silver. Star-like, we belted through the music full pelt. In rehearsal, we had been reprimanded for too much nodding in parts, (especially the wiggly bits in Handel’s ‘Messiah’) and told off for not swaying enough in the more swingy numbers. There’s ‘nae slackin’ in this choir, you have to pay attention. Glancing through my pencilled-in marks on the music, you would wonder what the heck was going on....it says ‘nae noddies...keep the heed....just shut up noo...start swaying from left....put a sock in it here....eyebrows-eyebrows!!!!!....gentle wooooo’. (Obviously, I have no idea what any of this actually means.)

Well, we made ‘em laugh and we made ‘em cry, which is one of my main aims in life, so the job was done. We also shocked ‘em into singing a few times, which is always good for a laugh. Eventually, after numerous attempts, the rapturous applause was calmed with the promise of a mince-pie and a wee dram, and everyone was miraculously transformed into the very essence of Christmas Present. Fa la la la lah, la la lah lah lah.

Now, if you’re having a little trouble finding your ‘Official Christmas Moment’, I’ll just say one thing....Farmer’s Market, Noon, Saturday, Carols, Be there or don’t be in The Square.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - THE COMMON WEEL

2010-12-10T18:43:00.001+01:00

Snow makes people do peculiar things...things they would not normally choose to do. Whether it’s clearing a neighbour’s driveway, attacking the pavement with an axe to break up compacted ice, or skytting down a hill on your backside to deliver a little festive cheer to someone’s house, if there is snow in your vicinity right now, you will no doubt have indulged in several new and challenging pursuits in an effort to help others.

This early snow has certainly been a major inconvenience and has made thousands of us very angry and upset at the difficulties it has caused. On the other hand, it is also heart-warming to see people helping each other out so magnanimously. Thousands of people have set off early, stayed late, or not gone home at all. Shopping has been fetched, meals delivered. The drivers of 4x4s, spurned like uncaring vermin when there is no snow, have become the heroes of the hour, taking essential staff to their work places, ensuring appointments can be kept, and transporting the vulnerable to safety. Strangers have leapt to the aid of struggling vehicles, hot food and drinks have been handed out to stranded travellers, snow-clearing gangs have gathered together to work more efficiently, and extra phone-calls and visits have been made to check people are alright. There’s a twang of ‘Spirit of the Blitz’ in the air this festive season, which seems remarkably appropriate.

Personally speaking, the scariest thing I have had to do sent me into a state of shock from which I am only just recovering. A phone-call came through from school...the Christmas show must go on, there’s a shortage of staff, the snow has scuppered rehearsals, it’ll only be a wee bit, we really, really, really need a pianist, can I help?

So with less than 24 hours notice, I found myself sitting at a piano with an audience of 300 somewhere behind me, about 30 children on the stage above me, madly peering at several unruly pages of music in a desperate effort to play several ABBA songs. How on earth I manage to get myself embroiled into these idiotic situations is a total mystery. But panic had set in, a pianist was urgently required, I am a mug, and nobody else could deliver.

Have you ever tried to play ABBA? With little advanced warning? For dozens of small children’s voices? At short notice? In the dark? (someone needs to invent fluorescent scores for all musicals/pantos or all piano players will soon be blind). Naturally everyone knows ABBA like the back of their tonsils, but Benny and Bjorn were both masterly and dastardly in their melodic construction. What may sound easy and familiar is in fact awash with ingenious complexity....a maelstrom of gymnastic jumps and jives around the keyboard, rapid falling sixths, unexpected tonic variations, subtle changes of key and fiendish twiddly bits. And it’s all so flaming FAST! They don’t hang around, those Swedes. You start off at the required line in the score, and you’re away, like an out-of-control sledge, your fingers bashing around in the darkness, feverishly hoping you might land on the right note somewhere near THE END.

When I reached THE END you could probably have heard my sigh of relief in Svalbard. Immense. Immense it was, and probably visible, even in the darkness. Duty had been done and the thing hadn’t fallen apart, which, in the circumstances, was about all one could hope for. The audience actually applauded, which was a plus, but I expect they felt they should as there were children involved.

With a little help from my friends, who wheeched me off to the local for a modest libation, I am in recovery now. As I sipped a gluwein in the snow, relieved that my paltry efforts were over for the day, I mused on the extraordinary ways in which people contribute to society when adverse circumstances conspire to require them to do so.

It is rather a leap to go from piano playing and snow shovelling to the winning of the Nobel Peace Prize, but as the award ceremony in Oslo has taken place today, I have to pay homage. The winner, the Chinese dissident Liu Xiaobo, was absent due to his imprisonment in an isolated cell in North East China. Seeing his empty chair in Oslo is extraordinarily poignant, a visual statement of what it can mean to contribute to ‘The Common Weel’ as we call it in Scotland. Few of us are that brave, and few of us could ever go as far as he has gone in seeking peace and freedom for others. But it seems the least we can do is pause for thought, reflect upon what we can do within our own, individual sphere of influence. To make a contribution still seems to be worthwhile.

NB: If you are anywhere near this house, please approach with caution and a decent set of ear plugs...there is an infernal racket going on at the piano.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - POTTERING ABOOT

2010-12-07T13:30:00.000+01:00

I’ve been eyeing up the blackthorn hedge, just in case I need to chop a bit off for the creation of a new magic wand. You never know if one of us might suddenly require one, but the blackthorn, from which standard wands are made, is plentiful. It seems that along with all this snow, there is a sprinkling of Potter magic across the land.

Have you seen it yet? The film? It’s another goodie, and it gears us all up nicely for the final-ever-actual-end-last-what-will-we-do-next film in the whole Harry Potter saga.

If I was 10 now, I reckon I’d be quite unable to keep my bedroom window shut. My childhood bedroom, a place I still frequent as the same house remains Parental HQ, has a tranquil view of a hill, and on that hill lives Hagrid. It’s not his actual Hut, of course, but it is the place to which Hagrid retreats when he isn’t being Hagrid, as it were. And post-HP, the hill has acquired a new glamour, particularly at night when all is silent and I perch at the window gazing onto the moonlit landscape, wondering when Hagrid might send me an owl with an interesting message.

So far zilch, but the magic of Harry Potter does not seem far away. The tourist board here in Scotland is apparently expecting a Harry Potter-induced boost to the industry....after all, it’s not just Hagrid that is originally Scottish, (obviously I KNOW he isn’t Scottish in the film, but he is in real life....I keep seeing him driving his classic cars up the road to the village Co-op). Tourists are expected to descend upon Scotland to pay homage to various HP hotspots for themselves...Glen Nevis, Glencoe, the Glenfinnan Viaduct, and of course the cafe in Edinburgh where JK Rowling wrote the first book. These places have acquired a new fascination, a glamour tinged with magic dust that has become desperately enticing.

There are several Scots amongst the cast in these films, but it would be turgid to name them all. Frankly, any British actor who has not been in a Harry Potter movie must be feeling a mite peeved...it’s a wall-to-wall Who’s-Who of the great and good of British theatre. But I can’t resist mentioning one of my favourites. Dame Maggie Smith is of course an English actress, but there is no way in Muggle-land that Professor McGonagall could have had that wonderfully ‘refined’ Glasgow/Kelvinside/Hyndland accent if Dame Maggie’s mother hadn’t been from Glasgow. I can’t help being rather thrilled that this gem of an accent has gone global, thanks to Dame Maggie. So I’m sharpening my blackthorn clippers...Professor McGonagall is so very reminiscent of my own school teachers that I do sense, you see, I could still be summoned by the Ministry of Magic at the next flick of my black cat’s tail.

JK Rowling was apparently stopped recently by a fan who simply said, ‘You ARE my childhood.’ Can you imagine anything more heart-warming for a writer? Proof indeed that one person’s imagination can change the world. But as the films have rolled along, and rumours of Hollywood producers and animated characters were long-since crushed, I have become more and more relieved that JK stuck to her guns in insisting the films were made here in the UK. They are peculiarly, very peculiarly, British.

Thanks to overwhelming mountains of snow right now, our youngest has just finished reading her first Harry Potter. Fittingly, I may well celebrate with a swig of Sloe Gin, the concoction that has been gently distilling since I plucked the sloes from this very blackthorn hedge a few weeks ago. Having had ten years of Harry Potter playing a dominant role in the cultural appetites of this household, I think we know that HP has been a central character in many children’s lives, a source of solace and comfort, as well as adventure and humour. Thanks to JK’s flights of fancy, the joy of fiction has been discovered by thousands more children than it might have been. And now, publishers and book retailers are seeing a steady growth in the sales of children’s literature. Last year over 60 million children’s books were sold in the UK, bringing a most welcome £293 million into the book industry.

Pure magic.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - COMFORT FOOD

2010-12-02T13:59:00.000+01:00

A friend of mine, a 47 year-old man, emailed earlier this week to say how very, very, VERY excited he was about opening the first window of his advent calendar in the morning. Naturally I assumed he would be greeted by a neat little chocolate, the first little thrill of December.

You will have heard, if you are not currently experiencing it yourself, that we are having record amounts of snow here right now. Perhaps it’s a Yin and Yang thing, but I do think that copious quantities of snow encourage the eating of copious quantities of chocolate...snow is so very cold and white, it seems to point us towards something warm and dark. Maybe it’s just me, but with the arrival of this extraordinarily wintery weather, I have noticed an odd phenomenon....the more snow I wade through, the more chocolate I wade through. The two must be directly related.

In Norway, there is a cross-country skiing tradition whereby you take chocolate and oranges with you for well-deserved sustenance en route. Somehow, this winning combination is now imprinted into my soul, the perfect comfort for the lonely skier as they pause for a moment's rest in the middle of a frozen plateau. Some real sticklers for tradition would only ever take Norwegian chocolate produced by the famous Norwegian company Freia, and more specifically, Freia’s ‘Kvikk Lunsj’. It seems no accident that Roald Dahl, born in Britain of Norwegian stock, was a world expert on chocolate. I’m convinced it must have been in his genes.

Perhaps it’s the snowy backdrop. Like tomatoes by the Med, or oysters in Paris, somehow chocolate in snow is especially necessary. And particularly delicious. And extremely comforting. And oh, so richly deserved.

Take today. I looked out of the window and ate a ‘pain au chocolat’ for brekka.

I put on twelve layers of clothing, went out to shovel snow off the car, came in, de-layered, and ate several huge triangles of chocolate for elevensies.

I put on eight layers, went out and shovelled two feet of snow off a sagging trampoline. I came in, boiled-alive and breathless, and polished off a pile of smarties I happened to find lying around.

I put on four layers, and went out to move a heap of 206 logs. I came in, de-layered and wolfed down an old bit of chocolate cake.

I put on two thinnish layers, and went for a three mile ski. I came in, glistening like an Olympian, stripped down to my murino thermals, and drank a pint of hot chocolate as an accompaniment to four chocolate gingers.

I’m wondering how this will all work out in the end....will nature somehow maintain a sense of balance between the endless choco-scoffing and the energy I spend every time I go outside? My weight is in even more of a state of flux than it normally is...what on earth I will look like by the end of this snow is anyone’s guess.

Then I felt even more embarrassed when my email went PING. I had done my good friend an unforgivable disservice. Turns out, his advent calendar is chocolate free. I was so shocked at my shallowness, I thought I’d better do something useful and constructive. So I finished off that bag of chocolate raisins that had been littering the bottom of my handbag.

Dinner is going to be such a surprise.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - BEING HAPPY

2010-11-27T17:28:00.002+01:00

Having wittered on about the town of St Andrews recently, I now find that St Andrews Day, a moment when we remember Scotland’s patron saint, is almost upon us. So how will we be celebrating this momentous event? Erm, dunno.

Unlike the Norwegian National Day, 17th May, where nobody works, everyone tidies up their surroundings and themselves, parades about in national dress, and ends the day with a big knees-up, we in Scotland are rather stumped when it comes to 30th November. It looks like we’ll be spending the day shovelling snow.

However, this year I have vowed to spend a ‘wee mintie’ thinking about my nation, rather in the spirit of Hugh MacDiarmid’s ’Drunk Man Looks at a Thistle’. You will know that this long poem is an intellectual and emotional contemplation of the condition of Scotland. So, I thought I’d take a moment, and being too short of time to enjoy a wee dram, I’ll act out ‘Sober Woman Looks at a Thistle’ instead.

Apart from the fact that it will be St Andrews Day, I have another reason for this naval-gazing. We’ve all been asked to measure our happiness. Prime Minister David Cameron, wants us all, throughout the UK, to consider how happy we are on a scale from 1 to 10. He wants to measure our General Wellbeing (GWB) in addition to our Gross Domestic Product (GDP) in order to evaluate the UK’s success. The office of National Statistics is charged with gauging our happiness, so that a ‘happiness index’ might be created.

The New Economics Foundation measured European levels of wellbeing recently and ranked the UK 13th out of 22. On a global scale, the NEF found Costa Rica was top of their Happy Planet index, a system which measures a combination of human wellbeing with environmental sustainability.

And, guess which nation was at the top of the Legatum Prosperity Index (a system which measures personal freedom, entrepreneurship, health, good governance and economic performance)? Norway, of course.

But are we Brits, and we Scots, really as unhappy as our low score in these studies might suggest? I haven’t noticed every Norwegian I ever meet being in a state of permanent euphoria any more than every Scot is in a state of misery (didn’t you know, the ‘dour Scot’ is only an act with which to irritate those south of the border? After all, being miserable can be enormously enjoyable....nobody can tell me the Drunk Man Looking at the Thistle wasn’t thoroughly enjoying himself).

However, I do sometimes wonder if we forget to notice when we are happy. We are all so busy, it’s too easy to concentrate on our problems rather than our successes. Perhaps we should be looking across the pond.

Recently, our American friends have been thankful, thankful, thankful as they sit down with their families to a Thanksgiving Dinner where all manner of gratitude is expressed from the personal to the global. In 1863, during the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln proclaimed a national day of thanksgiving on the third Thursday of November. But its origins lay as far back as 1619 with a thanksgiving ceremony for the colony of Virginia. However, the ‘First Thanksgiving’ is generally recognised as taking place in 1621 when thanks was given to God for helping the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony to survive. The settlers held a harvest feast which lasted three days and fed 53 Pilgrims and 90 Native Americans. It seems no surprise that the origins of thanksgiving are connected to nature, the earth and all that it provides.

We Brits, with our stiff-upper-lips, might be tempted to think Thanksgiving is a bit soppy, and all this talk of happiness is verging on the psychobabble. But I wonder if an official day for a nation to reflect upon the good things in life makes a population feel happier?

Would someone please research the statistics on that and deliver them to Number 10? Thank you, it would make me very happy and most grateful.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - CONSIDERING ECONOMIES

2010-11-22T21:55:00.000+01:00

Every time my eyebrows are raised at the state of our nation’s, or anyone else’s, financial affairs, I can’t help remembering James Carville’s quote (he being Clinton’s campaign manager) which he stuck on the wall of the presidential campaign HQ in 1992...

’it’s the economy, stupid’.

This seems like an answer to most questions, and one to which I, as matriarch in this house, resort with some frequency. But boy oh boy, am I glad I don’t have to take monumental decisions on the economy of a nation.

As I write, the financial markets are jittery following last weekend’s decision that Ireland should be bailed-out. As Ireland formally applies for 90 billion (or so) euros of European-led loans, we learn that despite the austerity currently hovering over us here in the UK, around 7 billion of that 90 is expected to come from Britain. The Chancellor hastily explained that ‘Ireland is a friend in need, and we need to help.’

I realize that a blog post about the economy is verging on the turgid...but really, no matter how dull you think economics might be, it seems to me more or less impossible to ignore this subject for the time being. I know I’m a snore, but I can’t get economics out of my head, (particularly since reading Robert Peston’s explanation of how global financial collapse came about in his brilliant book ‘Who Runs Britain?’)

So far, nobody has guessed the name of the economist (and St Andrews graduate) I mentioned last time. And perhaps there is a reason for that. The man of which I speak was one of those old-fashioned civil servants, not the sort to rush off and create a ‘celebie’ ghost-written-spin of an autobiography with which to supplement his perfectly respectable pension. No, no, this man was very pleased to spend a happy retirement in relative obscurity in St Andrews where he enjoyed many contented days within the hallowed walls of the Royal and Ancient. I have always been rather keen on modest, bespectacled old gents, and this guy ranks as one of my faves.

Rejoicing in the name Sir John Cowperthwaite, here was a man whose Scottish education had left him with a strong streak of common sense, a razor sharp intellect, a talent for thrift and a head filled with the notions of the Enlightenment. Born in Edinburgh in 1915, he read Classics at St Andrews, went on to Cambridge, and then returned to St Andrews to study economics. He joined the Colonial Administrative Service in 1941. From 1961 to 1971 he held the post of Financial Secretary for Hong Kong, and by simply doing his job, brought about an immense and lasting change for the colony.

In 1961 the average Hong Kong resident earned a quarter of someone living in Britain. By the early 1990s, average incomes there were higher than in the UK. Whereas we in the North East of Scotland cannot imagine life without the oil industry, and the same is true for Norway, Hong Kong’s lack of natural resources (other than a harbour) made its success particularly intriguing. As a result of Cowperthwaite’s policies, Hong Kong saw a 50 per cent rise in real wages, a two-thirds fall in the number of households in acute poverty, and exports rose by 14 per cent a year.

Cowperthwaite had arrived in Hong Kong with the ideas of Adam Smith very firmly established in his head. His administration was termed as a shining example of the ‘potency of laissez-faire’, a policy which created conditions for rapid growth. Personal taxes were kept at a maximum of 15 per cent, government borrowing was seen as unacceptable, there were no tariffs or subsidies, and red tape was reduced to the point that a new company could be registered with swift ease.

Cowperthwaite believed government should only intervene on behalf of the most needy, and that it should be actively discouraged from interfering in business. This meant continual battles with Whitehall. He also argued that for poor countries to thrive, they should abolish the office of national statistics, believing that statistics led the state to fiddle unnecessarily, thus hindering the natural working of the market.

However, despite low taxes, figures for mortality and disease showed steady improvement. Cowperthwaite had a Gladstonian sense of obligation towards the least fortunate, but did not believe that luxury should be the necessary reward for those who benefited from a free market economy. Indeed, his frugality with taxpayer’s cash extended to himself....he refused a much-needed upgrading of his official residence, saying that since others did not receive housing benefit, he did not see why he should. I know Scots are famous for being ‘mean’ but the line between being mean and being canny is mighty fine.

On speaking of how Hong Kong became known as the ‘world’s model of free economy’ under his watch, Cowperthwaite modestly remarked, ‘I did very little...all I did was try to prevent some of the things that might undo it’. When he retired in 1971 the Hong Kong economy was growing at a rate of 13.8%. He knew that this success must be attributed to the diligence and intelligence of the people, but it cannot be denied that his lightness of touch allowed it to happen. Nobel Prize Laureate Milton Freidman said ‘it would be hard to overestimate the debt Hong Kong owes to Cowperthwaite’. And with Hong Kong acting as the gateway to China itself, his legacy has now spread into China with massive implications for future growth.

Disciples of Adam Smith are not always popular, but if one man is capable of making a lasting impression on the globe, I have to hope there might be one or two Cowperthwaites around.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - ROMANTIC ACADEMIA

2010-11-18T13:35:00.000+01:00

Well now, there’s to be a royal wedding and all because of a certain university that lurks within the East Neuk of Fife. Heavens, this is going to make me horribly, disgracefully, nostalgic.

Within this very quad, several scores of moons ago, lectures were attended, exams were sat, champagne was poured, ball-gowns were admired, shaving-foam was sprayed, friendships were forged and life-long relationships were sealed. I expect Prince William and his bride-to-be would not believe me if I told them that one’s ‘post-finals-frenzy’ seems like only yesterday (although a glance at the happy-snappies from that time is enough to make anyone heave over our total lack of sartorial elegance....it was, after-all the 80’s, and no-one can pretend the ’glass of fashion’ was at its zenith just then). But there are certain milestones, certain moments and certain places which mark out life’s transitional stages and therefore remain unforgettable. The Quad of St Salvator’s in St Andrews University is undoubtedly one of those places for generations of graduates.

St Andrews has been rather thrilled to tell the world that it ranks as one of the most romantic universities ....one in ten graduates finds their marital partner there, a statistic that is apparently top of that particular league. And now that a Royal Wedding is on the cards, I have heard certain commentators boasting that even Oxford and Cambridge haven’t as yet managed to bring about a royal engagement. Our First Minister, Alex Salmond, a St Andrews graduate himself, appears to be tickled pink.

Looking at St Salvator’s Quad now, the place seems to reek potential, bristling with the as-yet-untapped contribution that those who pass through it might make to the world. While I can’t remember picking up a Prince from those days myself, I do recall participating in some extraordinary experiences and delighting in many strong and faithful friendships that continue to sustain and enhance one’s existence.

Of course this is no different from any other university. But whatever adventures are in store post-graduation, for most graduates, St Andrews is a place that gets under the skin. Only last night I attended a retirement dinner for a St Andrews graduate who went on to carve out a significant career in the mysterious art of operations geology. A stickler for detail and famous for his unforgiving use of the red pen, his high-standards mingled with a generous consideration for others have left a lasting impression on the oil industry across several continents.

You will know by now of my passion for that Norwegian super-hero, Fridtjof Nansen. Apart from being a polar explorer, politician, diplomat, humanitarian and Nobel Peace Prize winner, he was also the Rector of St Andrews University in 1926. In heading his Rectorial address ‘Adventure’, he indicated his sense that life should be viewed as such, and that student-hood was the springboard from which great ideas and achievements should be launched. In addressing the students of that time, Nansen said, ‘it is not the aim and end of life to become ‘famous and fortunate’. It is not as easy as that. You have come here to do your part and to do it well, wherever you are placed....if the world is out of joint, it is for you to put it right, to make it a better place to live in, each of you to the best of your ability: as I told you, there is ample scope for improvement.’

Well, it seems that although times may have changed since 1926, there is still ‘ample scope for improvement’. And now, as discussions on our current financial turmoil waft out of my radio, I can’t help thinking about another St Andrews graduate, an economist who changed a vast slice the world. Bet you can’t guess who?

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - SINGING

2010-11-14T21:48:00.000+01:00

Imagine you are one of 25 men, not necessarily in the first flush of youth, but none-the-less content to spend a considerable part of every Wednesday evening singing just two notes with these lyrics.... ‘jingle-tingle, jingle-tingle, jingle-tingle, jingle-tingle, jingle-tingle, jingle-tingle’ and so on and so on ad nauseam.

If you are not one of these lucky fellows, you may not appreciate just how much you are missing on a Wednesday evening. If you will permit me to mention the word ‘Christmas’ at this stage, I will report that this ‘jingle-tingle’ sound could be heard for several weeks here in our village, and it looks as though it will last throughout the festive season. At rehearsal, while the men are ‘jingle-tingling’, we ladies are whizzing through the tune at some speed...any faster and our rendition of ‘Sleigh Ride’ could gain us entry onto the Cresta Run. You see, our choir is in intensive rehearsal at this time of year, and when I say ‘intensive’ I am not mincing my words.

Last week, for example, after two solid hours of rehearsal, we all emerged from our Wednesday night session in a state of thrilled exhaustion. Anyone who has ever sung in a choir will be able to relate to this particular form of knackerment...the throat is shattered, the eyes aching, the ears ringing, the mind numb, and yet you are able to dance all the way home with a wealth of festive ditties swilling about your brain. Once safely installed in the bosom of one’s family, you irritate the blazes out of them by bursting into spontaneous song at every opportunity for the rest of the night.

We had started with Berlioz. You will remember that in this neck of the woods, we have a Doric twang to our accents. Well, our Director is having none of that. We were trying to sing ‘tender care.’

‘Stop, stop...accents ladies and gents...there will be nae ‘tendurr caiurr’...pretend you’re a posh English person and sing ‘tendaaaah caaaah.’ We put on our poshest accents. You’d never have known.

Then it was a bit of Handel’s ‘Messiah’. That man...did he ever hear of breathing? I began to think I was having a panic attack as I and my fellow sops hammered out several lines of ever-so-slightly different groups of demi-semi-quavers...I’m sure you know the bit....’fooooor unto us a child is bo-ho-ho-ho, ho-ho-ho-ho, ho-ho-ho-ho, ho-ho-ho-ho/ho-ho-ho-ho, ho-ho-ho-ho-, ho-ho-ho-ho, ho-ho-ho-ho/ (ditto for two more bars)...orn’ (enormous and desperate breath). It’s a serious workout for the diaphragm, but if you make it all the way, the sense of achievement is second to none.

Soon the Doric twang was threatening once again. ‘Ye canna sing ‘Peace on Eeeearrrth’ like a bunch of old farmers from the Mearns....get your posh voice out again and stretch out the ‘Peace’...I want ‘Peeeeas on Aaaaahhhth.’

We all obliged. A startling change. We could all have been born in the Home Counties, nae probs.

And now we were wrestling with Poulenc. If you listen to someone singing ‘Quem Vidistis’ you will realize it is a hauntingly beautiful piece, but you will have little notion as to just how tricky it is. Full attention is absolutely necessary or the whole thing collapses into a Latin nightmare. As for the tenors, well, they have a most awkward ziggy-zaggy bit in the middle for which, if they get it right, they should be awarded a prize of some kind.

I have written about singing before, and mentioned my belief that a ‘good sing’ is one of the best tonics a human being can experience. Perhaps this sense of choral-induced well-being is the reason so many people up and down this land are so dedicated to choirs. After all, singing in a choir takes quite a chunk of time out of one’s week. And it’s no picnic...deep concentration is required, not to mention a reasonable voice, a certain musical ability and very good behaviour. But despite these obstacles, I am delighted to find so many wonderful singers scattered throughout the Scottish population. In these days of ‘X-factor’ and ‘Britain’s Got Talent’, one might be forgiven for despairing at some, not all, of the hopefuls who enter these competitions. Frankly, most choir members could give those contestants a good run for their money, but we remain quite content to stick to the local choir rather than seek the glam and glitz of the Big Time.

And here, of course, I must mention the extraordinary tale of Susan Boyle. A member of a local choir in the Borders, she decided to take things a little further and prove that normal people know how to sing perfectly well. Her performance was quite the most refreshing thing in the media last year, and quickly became a ‘You Tube’ sensation. Her album sold over 10 million copies and became the fastest-selling global debut record of all time. And now, her latest Christmas-themed album is at the top of the UK album chart. It is altogether a most pleasing story, but to all those who happen to sing in a choir, it is especially thrilling in a sort of ‘told you so’ kind of way.

You just never know where a bit of ‘jingle-tingling’ in the village hall might lead.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - REMEMBRANCE

2010-11-11T11:35:00.002+01:00

This is the first time in four years that I have been in Scotland for Armistice Day, and indeed for Remembrance Sunday. The last three were all marked in Norway.

We stood on frosty, hard ground in the graveyard of the local church , blinking into the winter sun on a startlingly beautiful morning. Below us, chill mist rose slowly from the airfield where, sixty years before, German troops had parachuted into Norway at the start of the Norwegian Occupation. As we stood there, we watched the comings and goings of the modern airport as it is now, all of which seemed a testament to the fight for freedom that had been played out on this very soil. It was a most poignant place to mark Remembrance Sunday.

There are no Commonwealth cemeteries in Norway. Those who died are buried in civilian cemeteries and churchyards in the campaign areas throughout the country. During WW11, throughout the German Occupation, the war graves were cared for by the people of Norway. Nowadays the Norwegian national authorities take great care of them. Almost 1000 British and Commonwealth men are buried in 74 cemeteries and churchyards, casualties of the allied Norwegian campaign in 1940, and of the naval, air and special operations conducted throughout WW11.

There are so many extraordinary stories concerning these men, but I will concentrate on one in particular as it is local to the area in which we marked Remembrance Day. Several months ago, I wrote about the Heroes of Telemark. But there is a prelude to that extraordinary story. Operation Freshman was launched in 1942 by the newly formed airborne forces to attack the heavy water plant at Rjukan in the Telemark region. Launched from an airfield in Wick, Scotland, it involved two Halifax towing aircraft and two Horsa gliders. Due to bad weather and icing problems, one of the gliders crashed in the Lysefjord mountains , while the other glider and its Halifax towing aircraft crashed near Helleland. Those men that were not killed in the crash were captured by German forces, handed over to the Gestapo, tortured and executed.

To stand in a place where one knew that such atrocities had occurred just seven decades before was overwhelming. The snow-covered mountains were still there in the distance, the sea over which aircraft had flown was just behind us, the air was as cold as ever. As the names of those buried there were read out, as the British Consul, the Mayor, and Senior British and Canadian Officers laid wreaths, and as a trumpet blasted the Last Post out across the hillside, you cannot imagine how the events of seventy years ago suddenly felt like yesterday.

Here in our village, we have a First World War grave in our local cemetery, a young man who died aged 20 at the very end of WW1 in 1918. I pointed it out to one of my children just the other day, and she remarked how strange it was that so many war graves were spread across the world in so many different places. But this young man's grave is every bit as poignant as those in official war cemeteries and small, local churchyards wherever they may be. Throughout Scotland, throughout the UK, we have grown up listening to those lists of names being read out each year, and in the act of Remembrance, it seems that our understanding of peace, and what it costs, grows each time. Wherever they may be buried, we will remember them.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - COUNTING BLESSINGS

2010-11-05T19:12:00.000+01:00

What do you do with a roomful of Norwegians? This is not a joke, tempting though it may be to come up with a few witticisms. No, this is a true story. The answer? Ask them a searching question about their nation.

A roomful of Norwegians were in the middle of a day-long conference which was, allegedly something to do with work, although none of them had the remotest idea as to what that might be. They sat there passively, enjoying the toe-curlingly strong coffee that had thoughtfully been provided for them. They were all given a sharp pencil and a piece of paper... even in industry, some people still use these archaic instruments. They were asked to write down their top five favourite things about Norway.

Their minds leapt from mountain to fjord, from snow to sea, from fish to ski, from cosy hytte to the spankingly-new opera house in Oslo. They all scribbled away feverishly.

The next question was to write down the five reasons they would choose to stay living in Norway. Once again their imaginations veered off into the outdoors towards some visually sensational landscape replete with reindeer, moose, Arctic fox and a serious dump of snow on which it might be possible to ski. You will have realised by now it is remarkably difficult to stop a Norwegian thinking about skiing.

But this question was slightly trickier. And when they were asked to put their five answers in order, it became a considerable tease. So, it is fascinating to discover that every one of them came up with the same Number One reason.

And that reason was......the Norwegian Health System.

I have been speculating as to whether or not a roomful of Scots would come up with the same unanimous answer. I suspect the NHS may not be the chief reason for people staying in this country, but perhaps I’m wrong. Why not find a roomful of Scots and carry out an experiment for yourself?

As the US mid-term elections have been splattered across the media, and with Obama’s moves towards healthcare reform appearing to be one of the many issues that are irritating so many US voters right now, I have been considering our attitudes to the NHS here in the UK. For many Americans, the idea of a health system that is free for all from the point of need is inconceivable.

But for us in the UK, the reverse is true....the idea of NOT having the NHS is inconceivable. Naturally, our health systems in both Norway and the UK are not perfect, and we all know horrible stories of things not working out as they should. The Norwegian system is similar to ours, although if a patient is in need of medical attention, there can be some payments along the way...for example, if I went to see my GP, I would be charged a portion of the doctor’s fee. So, it is not ‘as free’ as it is in the UK, although National Health Insurance covers all costs involving hospitalization.

We all have our health horror stories. But we also all have our health wonder stories.....the times when extraordinary expertise coupled with genuine, skilful care has brought great, life-changing joy. We know it’s not perfect, but I believe we do, after all, cherish what we have. We also all know that the funding of the NHS is akin to funding a bottomless pit. Unlike Americans, we at least HAVE a free health system. We also, for the time being at least, have less unemployment, universal child allowance, and we can still educate our students at top universities for a fraction of the cost of the US equivalent. Whichever flavour of government happens to be in power, we have to pull ourselves out of a world-wide credit crunch while trying to preserve some of the aspects of living in the UK that are most precious to us. With all the doom and gloom around, it is easy to forget that many people in the world don’t have it so good.

I’m reminded of the BBC’s Andrew Marr and his comment at the conclusion of his mega TV series on the ‘A History of Modern Britain’....he remarked that, at the end of the day, it is the most incredible piece of luck to have been born British.

I’m going to try out that experiment tonight.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - THINKING

2010-10-29T11:14:00.000+02:00

I’ve been thinking. A rare occurrence, I know, but it’s the imminent changes to Scottish education that’s doing it.

You will recall the sport of Norwegian rock-based-sea-gazing that I have mentioned in the past. Well, turns out they do it in Scotland too, albeit not so frequently. Working hours in Scotland and the UK as a whole are a good deal longer than in Norway, although, contrary to popular belief, not the longest in Europe. It just feels like that.

However, if the opportunity arises for a spot of Scottish rock-based-sea-gazing we can indulge in it just as well as anyone else. For every Norwegian standing on a rock, deep in thought and staring out across the North Sea, there must be at least one Scot standing on this side staring back. For example, one of our composers, Peter Maxwell Davies (Max to his mates) freely admits he has to take a walk by the Orcadian coast every morning to allow his brain to be creative before he can start work. Not a commute but a commune.

But it’s not just the arty types who need thinking time. A friend whose mission it is to find a cure for congenital heart disease admits that it is in these quiet moments, in the spaces between being busy, that the big ideas pop into one's head. So, between carrying out heart ops, running a research lab, teaching students and being a very busy Dad, he knows full well that ‘a time to think’ must be built into his day.

At present, with Government cuts looming, and while many struggle to remain employed, run a business, pay bills or simply get through the day, I suspect that ‘thinking’ is having to take a back seat. The opportunity to ‘stand and stare’ can feel like a luxury, an indulgence, if not a waste of time.

In the past, Scotland has been rather keen on thinking, a habit which came to glorious fruition in the latter half of the 18th century with the Age of Enlightenment. ‘Thinking’ was all the rage back then, and the result was a flourishing of the arts and sciences, literature and philosophy that was without parallel in the modern world. David Hume’s ‘Treatise of Human Nature’, Thomas Reid’s ‘Inquiry into the Human Mind’, James Beattie’s ‘Essays on Truth’, and Adam Smith’s ‘Wealth of Nations’ influenced the world then and still do today. In science, the discoveries of James Black, John Leslie, John Gregory, Joseph Hutton, William Cullen and John Hunter brought new thinking to chemistry, physics, geology, maths, anatomy and medicine. Scottish Universities operated an ‘open door’ policy which accepted poverty-stricken but talented students, as well as students from England and abroad. Graduates were prepared for a world that required up-to-date skills to sustain a growing economy. The tradition of Scottish doctors, engineers, entrepreneurs and colonial administrators became well-established from those times.

I’ve been thinking about all this because, as a parent, I cannot help but be concerned about the soon-to-be implemented ‘Curriculum for Excellence’. Over the next few years, a seismic shift is to take place in our education system in Scotland. The Scottish Government has been devising a new qualifications system for secondary school pupils, and it is our duty as citizens to ensure that it will achieve the ‘excellence’ advertised in the title. Any radical change to the education system is bound to cause scepticism, worry and fury, so the Government is braced for a barrage of criticism. However, at the moment confusion still reigns amongst pupils, teachers, and parents as to exactly how this new system will work, how it is to be implemented, and what it might mean for our pupils. The details are not finalised as yet, but we have to hope that, despite the change, the principals of Scottish education, once famous for its breadth, depth and practical thoroughness, will not be lost.

And now, there’s a second fly in the ointment. The concept of a free university education which the Scottish Government has managed to uphold until now, unlike England, is once again under threat. As our universities struggle to maintain high standards they are scrabbling around for funding , and so there is talk today of graduates having to pay back part of their salary once they achieve a certain earning threshold.

As Scotland wrestles with trying to prepare itself for the future while at the same time dealing with the aftermath of the credit crunch, The Age of Enlightenment seems but a distant dream. Of course things weren’t ideal then either, with poverty and inequality of opportunity still hampering the potential of many. But the importance attached to rigorous thinking that led to Edinburgh becoming the ‘Athens of the North’ and Glasgow becoming the ‘Second City of the Empire’ seems almost unimaginable now.

I think I’ll go for a wee think.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - STORMY READING

2010-10-23T11:29:00.001+02:00

I apologize for the slight break in attendance here. I was obliged to pay homage to the North East of Scotland tradition of ‘tattie howkin’, otherwise known as a ‘break in the school term intended to provide youthful workers for the seasonal harvesting of potatoes’. Nowadays, however, if I met a school pupil who had ever harvested a potato from the good earth of the North East, I would be hard-pressed to conceal my wonder.

So, we skived off the tatties, and sought sunnier climes by venturing south where we encountered some of the most dramatic weather I have ever witnessed. The sun shone, but the humidity threatened something quite different. At last a storm broke, just as we were returning home from a night of over-eating and general holiday merriment. Our small car converted into a boat as we sailed up a rushing river that had once been a road, and attempted to see through a windscreen that might has well have been in mid-carwash. Children screamed, the driver swore, the weather worsened. Right above our heads, thunder belted and lightening flashed at a rate of one flash every two seconds. It was like strobe-lighting in a 70’s discotheque, with fear-for-one’s-life added to the cocktail of thrills for extra impact. I didn’t like it one bit. I needed something fascinating to take my mind off the whole scenario.

Once ensconced in a sheltered location, I tried to distract my brain from the extraordinary thunderstorm over my head by reading ‘Ordinary Thunderstorms’, a recent novel by a peach of a Scots author, William Boyd.

Now HE is a real treat. I have been trying to limit myself to just one of his books a year, but sometimes there is a lapse, and I have to read two. Or even three. He is, I must confess, my favourite Scots author by a disgracefully long way.

A quick glance at his whereabouts and you might wonder why he is considered a ‘Scottish author’ at all. He was born in Accra, Ghana and spent much of his early life there and in Nigeria. He now lives in London and often visits the South of France. But if you ever hear him talk, you’ll hear an unmistakable Scots ‘burr’ which reveals not only that his family were Scots, but that a good deal of his schooldays and adult life were spent north of the border. For several years he worked in Scotland and I suspect must visit the place from time to time too. He sprinkles his books with the occasional Scot in a manner that only a person ‘weel kent’ with this nation could do.

‘Ordinary Thunderstorms’ is set in London, a thriller of a chase, a classic page-turner and a gripping distraction from any violent thunderstorms that may be causing terror overhead. It’s also funny, which is the thing about that man William Boyd. You have to plan where and when you read him, because he can make you laugh out loud, a most irksome irritation to any nearby non-Boydites.

I wonder what it is about Scotland that the place should continue to produce astounding writing. Boyd is my Number One but there are so many goodies from which to choose. Despite the wonders of technology, we Scots remain curiously bookish. 18th century Scotland had one of the highest literacy rates in the world, thanks to the Kirk’s insistence that every parish must have a school. Despite these financially rocky times, and despite the increasingly precarious nature of authorship, I am simply surrounded by people who are busily writing and publishing books. Books and reading have been a habit here for a long time. So while I cowered from the raging storm, I couldn’t help speculating as to whether writing, and indeed reading, is weather-related. Scots, like Norwegians, are still terrifically dedicated readers, and many an author, including JL Rowling herself, has found sanctuary, appreciation and inspiration in, and from, this nation. The skilful telling of a darn good tale is still a cherished delight.

But some people have all the luck. Can you believe, several years ago a friend of a friend had William Boyd himself as their babysitter....while a young man based at Glasgow University, Mr Boyd babysat for these fortunate children in the West End of the city. One can only imagine the outstanding quality of the bedtime stories. You’d never get a wink of sleep.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - CULTURAL NOTES

2010-10-06T11:09:00.001+02:00

I presume you have been watching ‘Spooks’ on the BBC. If not WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO?

There’s nothing quite like getting your teeth into a decent TV thriller on a Monday night when you should be concentrating on the washing up, polishing shoes and ironing school uniform. But I have an excuse. Not only did I wish to feast my eyes on a bit of far-fetched international espionage action...I also wanted to feast my ears too. It turns out, the boy doing the music, a vital addition to the edge-of-the-seat tension that makes the series such a hum-dinger, is turning into a rather successful composer.

We are lucky enough to have some fantastic composers here in Scotland, and I shall come back to them at a later date. But for now, I am interested in this new breed, a very different sort of composer from those that used to sit at their spinets in some European creaking attic, quills poised as they waited for divine inspiration to strike. This new breed is hip and adept, casting a wider net far out across a musical ocean that encompasses old and new genres...classical, jazz, folk, rock, pop, garage, house, shed, garden or whatever they call the stuff. These guys know what's what and what to do with it.

Imagine the scene. Just a few years ago, a young music student, Paul Leonard Morgan, was sitting about in a studio at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama in Glasgow, fiddling with an electronic semi-quaver and generally minding his own musical business. The phone rang.

‘It’s only me, in the office,’ chirped a cheery Glaswegian. ‘There’s someone here from the telly...they want a bit of music for a football programme or something...flick your switch?’

From there a career was born. Young Paul got to work, provided the goods and made a name for himself. The next job was music for a wildlife documentary entitled ‘Galapagos’, and then there was some work with bands like Snow Patrol, Belle and Sebastian and Sharleen Spiteri. Before long, Paul had landed himself a dream job. Could he come up with an orchestral score for a BBC Scotland landmark production, ‘The History of Scotland?’ Oh, and by the way, could he also produce a ‘Concert Suite’ based on the score because the house band (BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra) were going on tour soon, and it would be kind of neat?

The series turned out to be a mega-production for the BBC, and one which has not been without controversy (there are tales of insulted historians and offended academics leaving production meetings in disgust at some of the editorial decisions.) I too would take issue with some of the views expressed in the series. Anyone who cares about Scotland and has an opinion would do so. But every big-budget production which aims to tell the history of a nation is bound to have its critics.....you are asking for trouble, it seems to me. However, it is certainly a ‘good watch’ and for me, part of its success is the music, the glue that binds the whole series together to ‘make it live’. It's clever and it's beautiful. And it was from this success that young Paul went on to create the music for ‘Spooks.’

The new breed of composer is not only an accomplished musician...he or she is an arranger, a producer, a DJ, a mixer, and even a sound engineer. If they are composing for film, television or computer games, they must work within a collaborative creative framework...often their perfectly-formed phrases are cut and squeezed to suit visual action. Either the composer has to learn to live with this or there will be tears before bedtime. The funny thing is, if you are promised a cheque at the end, even the artiest of arty-pants can learn to adjust.

You may well think that choosing to be a composer is an odd career choice, the path chosen by dreamers and romantics. But this kind of thing can be big business. According to the Scottish Culture Minister, Scotland is a world-leader in the creative industries, a sector which supports 63,000 jobs, and generates an annual turnover of £5.2 billion. For a nation the size of Scotland, those figures are not to be sniffed at. So as the current post-credit-crunch belt-tightening hangs over us, I hope that somehow the creative industries will be seen for what they can produce, and not merely as unnecessary frills with which to pass an idle moment.

Meanwhile, I'll get back to my fiddle, and try to remember that all this desgraceful scraping and screeching may one day bear fruit.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - THE AMBER BEAD

2010-10-03T15:31:00.002+02:00

The smell, the colour, the taste, the atmosphere...all of them need to be just so for the connoisseur to fully appreciate the ‘amber bead’, Robert Burns’s term for Scotland’s most famous drink, whisky. I would never describe myself as a connoisseur in this sense (and I have often been told, usually by elderly gents, that whisky is wasted on a woman), but I am happy to share a wee dram of an evening as the nights draw in and autumnal chills steal through the air.

Whisky has been on my mind as well as in my throat this week. Despite the current recession it is slightly surprising to find that we still seem able to produce a hot seller in this country, so much so that the biggest distillery in Scotland for 30 years has just opened.

There is frequent criticism that we in the UK didn’t seem to be producing anything any more...where are our manufacturers, what do we make, where are our skills and expertise going if we can’t produce products, and if manufacturing costs in developing countries are so much cheaper, what is the point of trying to make anything anyway? This is a call often heard in a wealthy country like Norway too, and yet, from time to time, the unstoppable spirit of enterprise raises its head and, despite the odds, makes something wonderful....something that people want to buy.

Take whisky. There are strict international laws governing the status of Scotland’s most iconic product. To be called ‘Scotch’, whisky has to have been distilled in Scotland, matured for a minimum of three years and one day, and to have been matured in oak casks. The new distillery has opened at a cost of £40 million, and with 18 years before its casks can be opened and the contents sold, somebody somewhere within these recession-hit borders is an optimist.

So, in the spirit of ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’, I have been considering the figures. It turns out that the UK as a whole makes £99 per second in export revenues from whisky. This is big business, with over 2,500 different brands. Last year whisky made £3 billion in exports, one quarter of the UK export sales from food and drink. Apparently, what with whisky being perceived as a ‘lifestyle’ product, the growing middle-classes of China, Korea and South Africa are lapping it up. (India is a weaker market due to current high duties). What is more, whisky has an ability to cope with a variety of economic climates....in hard times it offers comfort and solace, in good times it provides an accompaniment to a celebratory toast.

And it has been so for several hundred years. Since the early 14th century, the term ‘aqua vitae’ (water of life) has been applied to distilled drinks, no doubt a linguistic relic from days of the Roman Empire, and one which exists in Norway to this day (‘aquavit’ being the favourite choice for toast-giving moments). In Scotland, the term was translated from Latin to Gaelic...’usque baugh’, or 'uisge beatha’, and from there to the English ‘whisky’. It is known that King James IV of Scotland was a keen whisky drinker. After Scotland merged with England in the Act of Union in 1707, the taxes on whisky rose dramatically, but consumers were hooked, so production continued to grow.

Even the names, particularly when added to the actual consuming of a dram, can bring a shaft of comfort to many a Scot ....Auchentoshan, Bowmore, Bruichladdich, Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, Glenmorangie, Highland Park, Isle of Jura, Laphroaig, The Macallan, Springbank or Talisker....the very names themselves inspire a nostalgic longing for the hills and glens, and permit an unleashed wallowing in sentiment, a favourite occupation for many a Celt.

For those who can’t stand the taste, I have an alternative offering. Seek out Compton Mackenzie’s novel ‘Whisky Galore’, a tale based on a real incident...in 1941 , the SS Politician was shipwrecked off the isle of Eriskay. The islanders attempted to carry her cargo, bottles of whisky, ashore under the noses of the Home Guard. The novel was followed by a film of the same name made in 1949 by Ealing Studios, and was to be known as one of Britain’s most successful comedies.

Enjoy and slainte mhath.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - GOLF

2010-09-28T22:44:00.002+02:00

Today marks the start of the Ryder Cup, which gives me the perfect excuse to mention one of Scotland's great inventions....the game of golf.

As you will know, the Ryder Cup, which this year is being held at Newport in South Wales, offers European professional golfers a chance to compete against their peers from the USA. The competition has taken place biennially since 1927, interrupted by WW11 and the terrorist attacks of 2001. It is considered one of the world's great sporting events, and is a particular favourite of golfers and fans alike.

I have to declare that although I am a Scot, I would never describe myself as a golfer. I have grown up surrounded by golf clubs, golfers and golf courses, and once, in a moment of enthusiasm, I helped to build a course (well, it passed the summer hols). Later on, I spent several years living in St Andrews, but, to the dismay and incredulity of most golfers, I never played the sacred game while living in the Home of Golf. I know...it's shameful, but I was busy.

Nowadays, I restrict my playing to one or two favourite courses on small islands, often in fog, where the fairways are enhanced by the sheep that graze upon them and the planes that occasionally land there. My skills as a golfer are lamentable, but do at least allow me to venerate the great game with a suitable level of humility. However, much to my surprise, while in Norway, I did somehow find myself playing golf in the Arctic...at midnight, just because you CAN.

There is some debate as to the exact origins of golf...there is a view that the Romans were busy clubbing balls as well as several other things as they went about expanding their empire. Some believe the Chinese are responsible, but nobody can prove a thing. What is generally accepted, however, is that the modern game derived from a few Fife shepherds who gained their kicks by knocking stones into rabbit holes with their crooks at the site of the Old Course in St Andrews.

Later, in 1744, a group of men met to establish some rules (and they were all men...believe me, when, in my youth, I gained employment as a 'plongeur' at the 'Royal and Ancient', the notice at the front door still said 'No dogs, and no women'). Since then, the original framework for these rules has been modified and updated from time to time, safeguarding the game and ensuring respect for its traditions. People visit the Old Course in St Andrews from all over the world...some of them play, but many simply look upon the hallowed turf in awe and wonder.

There are some who think that one is not a proper person unless one chooses to play and take an interest in this great game. I find this view extremely trying, knowing as I do many a good and courteous citizen who has no interest whatsoever. Golf can raise tempers and displays of less than perfect manners, particularly at the moment while Mr Donald Trump is busy establishing a course off the North East coast of Scotland, a scheme that has enraged many a Scot.

But whatever one's attitude to the game in general, however much one might play and however often one might enjoy watching golf, there is no doubt it lies at the very heart of our culture here in Scotland. It suits the climate, it suits our topography, it allows for a dose of exercise and fresh air that creates thrill without causing too much breathless effort. But I can't help suspecting it rather suits our character too....Scots like to grapple with things, to face challenges and seek to conquer them. The old jibe of golf being 'a good walk ruined' has an air of truth to it....is there anything more frustrating than trying to whack a wee white ball round some holes with accuracy and aplomb? Pent up frustrations can vanish.

I may not be a regular golfer, but, rather like old age, I can feel it coming on....there's a kind of inevitability about having to spend some of one's life playing golf. However, there is absolutely no inevitability about the outcome of a game, and that is why we can't resist watching a decent championship.

So, I'd like to know, whether or not you play golf, where in the world is your favourite course?

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - THE MASK OF KNOWING BRILLIANCE

2010-09-24T18:32:00.002+02:00

We're sitting in Children's Accident and Emergency with a broken finger which is still, just, attached to a traumatised child, albeit at a slightly jaunty angle. There are four of us trying to share two plastic chairs. We are also trying to write an essay on a truly appalling and disgracefully self-indulgent poem by Plath, and there's a physics test in the morning, so we're testing each other on electrical currents. None of us have had anything to eat for at least six hours, and all we can find is an an old piece of mouldy chocolate that was lurking in my non-designer handbag.

To make matters worse, I look completely mad. I am wearing a foul outfit that I had been using for gardening earlier in the day, so no doubt I smell of manure. I haven't looked in the mirror since dawn, my hair has suffered its usual reaction to the Scottish smir so I look like a cross between a firework and a demented loo brush. The only lipstick in my bag is jet black, a leftover from a recent dressing-up outfit. None of us have coats, or even a jumper of any kind and the weather outside is becoming less and less inviting. One of us managed to leave school wearing only one shoe, a trick which may defy all logic, but the sort of incident to which most parents of teenagers will merely raise a resigned eyebrow.

I am also missing two meetings this evening, one of which I seriously needed to attend. I had three urgent phone-calls to make, but my phone is probably down the back of the sofa at home. Maybe. I have to find radishes for someone's Home Economics lesson, and I know I need to produce six pound coins to hand out to various offspring for very specific purposes. The car is sitting in a dodgy space outside, so I may well be fined, and it also has just a miniscule dribble of petrol left in it...the nearest petrol station is shut, so I'll have to hope we can reach one somewhere else on the way home. I must complete a vital letter to the Scottish Parliament on a subject currently being debated. Oh, and I have to make a Victorian costume for a nine-year-old before tomorrow morning.

Some of the most amazing people I know are single parents. I've now had a full four months of pretending to be a single parent, the TA being stuck in Norway up to this point. All oil wives know very well what it is like to have to hold the fort for days, weeks, months at a time, and they become highly adept at doing so. Our friends in the Military have an even harder time, often longer, and without nearly so much contact. And some people manage to be single parents all the time, for which they should be given a giant medal on a daily basis. So I have been trying to find a neat trick that will help me to cope....I didn't think I'd find it in A and E.

I shove the uninjured offspring off one of the plastic seats and sit back in contemplation. I'm stuck in here until the broken finger is dealt with, and I find this kind of incarceration curiously relaxing. I can't do anything. I'm trapped until all is resolved. A kindly nurse shows great concern for the patient, and so I share some of his kindness, pretending a dose of it is inadvertently intended for me. Then the doc shows up and I am immediately comforted by her Mask of Knowing Brilliance.

I am fond of The Mask of Knowing Brilliance. I've seen it quite a bit. It is something I believe all good medics acquire, almost by osmosis, at some point during their clinical training. Whether or not The Mask originated in Scotland, no-one can say, for it appears to be universal amongst the medical establishment. I wonder if they realize what a comfort it is to those of us who are mere patients. It can have an immediate placebo effect, and that's not merely on the patient themselves but any hangers-on too. Even when the situation has taken the doctor by surprise, and they patently haven't a clue what is going on, as long as they present The Mask of Knowing Brilliance, we mere mortals can put up with almost anything.

After reflecting on this while we wait about, I think how useful it must be to have such a mask. Perhaps it could be used by mothers, by parents in general, when dealing with the inconveniences of life. So, once the finger is sorted, after buying petrol and radishes and acquiring six pound coins, after scrabbling about for some food (sorry, darlings, I know it's junk tonight, but close your eyes and pretend you don't like it and your mother didn't really buy it), after finding it is too late to phone anyone and my phone could stay down the back of the sofa for all I cared, after sewing a unique Victorian costume from an old table cloth and an absurd colour of thread, after the Plath and the physics were dealt with, the letter finished off and the youths had disappeared off to bed, I try pulling a few faces in the mirror.

Ah yes...you see? That's powerful. Even I can do The Mask of Knowing Brilliance. Good discovery. Maybe it's the black lipstick that does it.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - A FINE PIECE

2010-09-19T18:29:00.001+02:00

A 'fine piece' helps the world go around. It's just a fact.

Anyone acquainted with the North East of Scotland will know very well that a 'fine piece' is a treat, a little of what you fancy, naughty but nice, something a wee bit sweet, a wee bit tasty and a wee bit thrilling. In other words, a cake.

We all know that such delights should be approached in moderation, if not rationed. But in certain settings, preferably social ones, the opportunity to indulge in a 'fine piece' can produce more than mere pleasure and satisfaction. I have learnt that a 'fine piece' served at an appropriate moment can make things happen.

A friend of mine, a good citizen who contributes on a daily basis to our local community and to wider society in general, told me her view of how to run the perfect meeting. In addition to making sure that everyone was able to say their bit without people blethering on until we were at wrist-slitting point, she has adhered to a certain trick for most of her committee-filled life.

'Ye'll nae get onything done and decided wi'oot the offer o' a fine piece at half-time.'

How true. I have sat on many a committee in the past, and even chaired a few, and there is nothing finer than being able to say, 'Och, now, let's have a wee breather and scoff a plate o' French Fancies wi' a wee cup o' tea'. Just when things are getting a bit sticky, when the argy-bargy is threatening unpleasantness, when the bossiest person at the table is starting to needle the pedant (for most committees can provide such characters), oil can be poured on troubled waters with the offer of a 'fine piece' and a cup of tea.

I mention this because I was once witness to the Norwegian amusement at we Brits, particularly over the 'cup of tea' issue, although the 'fine piece' was all part of the joke. This Norwegian laddie had been a student in Scotland, and could not get over the fact that his fellow-students and flat-mates, about every five minutes, said things like, 'Time for a cuppa', or 'anyone fancy a brew-up,' or 'char's ready' or 'I could just murder a cup o' tea right now.' The Norwegian fell about laughing at the memory of his student days, slapping his thighs with mirth at the very thought of this tea-obsessed nation in which he was seeking to further his education.

'I thought it was all a huge cliché until I actually lived with you guys,' he chortled as he mopped his tear-filled eyes. 'But every time I entered a room, or stood up, or spoke, I was instantly offered a cup of tea...it was hilarious....you Brits really are totally hooked on tea and little cakes.'

I tried to explain. I pointed out that this habit is probably a relic of our imperial past....what better way to ensure the prosperity of a nation and its empire than to create a population of addicts? Whether it be tea, sugar or some rather more dodgy commodity, there is no doubt that we fell for it all and haven't recovered yet.

But why worry? If you need to cajole and persuade people to do things, if our PM Mr Cameron is to achieve his aim of establishing a 'Big Society' (we are all still trying to work out exactly what this means, but we THINK it means we all have to contribute more, in one way or another) then I reckon a 'fine piece' strategy won't do any harm. So, if you'll excuse me for a tick, I must, in my capacity to contribute to The Big Society, email Number 10 and tell the Coalition to get baking.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - MEETING NEEDS

2010-09-15T00:15:00.000+02:00

If someone offers you a 'boatle a' soup' in Glasgow, you would be wise to decline politely. You could end up 'blootered', if not 'heavily bongoed'. The lingo may be splendid, but the habit is not. Sad to say, the culture, and therefore the language, surrounding the drinking of alcohol in Glasgow is maintaining the stereotypical image of my favourite city. But Glaswegians aren't the only ones...the stereotype has relatives throughout the whole of the UK these days. We Scots, we Brits, are drinking copious quantities, and it's not pretty, especially for our young people.

So this week, the British Red Cross announced that it is to offer First Aid classes for children so that they can help their friends if they become dangerously drunk. That is the state we have got ourselves into here in the UK. The British Red Cross has carried out a survey which reveals that amongst every 2,500 young people (11 to 16 year olds), 10% have been left with a drunk friend who was sick, injured or unconscious, and 14% reported that they had been in an alcohol-related emergency. Between 2006 and 2009 there were more than 7,000 hospital admissions involving under-15s and alcohol.

I have long been an admirer of the Red Cross. I like the organisation's 'finger-on-the-pulse' attitude and its practical, non-judgemental approach to need. Wherever the Red Cross works, it somehow manages to understand what a society is most in need of at any one time. In Norway, I know that at the moment the Red Cross is particularly concerned with 'social isolation' and works hard to ensure that the those who are hidden from society are not ignored. I have witnessed this work in Norway at close hand, and I have to report it has changed lives for the better.

You will recall that one of my favourite Norwegians is Fridtjof Nansen. I have already mentioned his achievements as a polar explorer and scientist, but so far, I have not mentioned how he went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize. In 1922, the last of the German and Austria-Hungarian soldiers, who had been in Russian captivity after WW1, was shipped home. In exchange, the ships they arrived in returned with the last Russian POWs from Germany. Over 400,000 prisoners were exchanged within two years, thanks mainly to Nansen.

Nansen was grateful to the International Red Cross for carrying out the bulk of the practical work. As a result of working with him, the Red Cross decided to use his name in another regard. Lenin had deprived thousands of Russians of their nationality, after they had fled to the West following the civil war. This 'statelessness' prevented them from crossing borders, so the Red Cross proposed using Nansen's name on a special passport for refugees. As a result, the Nansen Passport became much sought-after, allowing many to make a new life for themselves in the West, including Stravinsky, Rachmaninov, Pavlova and Chagall.

I realize the link to Scotland's drink problem is somewhat tenuous, but after this week's announcement, I can't help recalling all this as the Red Cross goes about its work. Whether the need is local, national or international, it delivers...with one eye on the Pakistan Flood Appeal, there is another, more local eye, seeking solutions here. (Scotland's links with Pakistan have meant Scots, and Britain as a whole, have donated considerably to that disaster, and we continue to do so.)

So, can the Red Cross help to ease the risks of our young folks' binge-drinking? We have to hope so. I have just seen a questionnaire which asked school children about their attitudes to alcohol...it makes one's hair stand on end.

At the moment, the Scottish Parliament is debating whether or not to increase the price of cheaper brands of alcohol....those against an increase fear that such a move would merely line the pockets of retailers, could potentially create greater hardship as manufacturers lose part of their market, and that hardened drinkers would still find alcohol somewhere anyway.

Well, try telling that to a medic working in a Casualty ward on a Friday night, or a school head who has to deal with the aftermath of pupils recovering from a drunken weekend, or the policeman who patiently returns plastered teenagers back to their parents' doorstep of an evening, or a parent whose child is having their stomach pumped.

I think this is a moment for the current parlance...'it's a no brainer'.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - THE SKIRL O' THE PIPES

2010-09-12T15:35:00.000+02:00

I was required to go out and purchase a chanter for a certain acquaintance of mine. You will know, of course, the significance of a chanter....in Scotland, a 'chanter' is either a person who sings a great deal, or it is part of a set of bagpipes. You blow into one end, and your fingers play the tune further down the pipe. If you have picked the bagpipes as your instrument of choice, you will learn and practise on the chanter. If you insist on practising on a full set of bagpipes all the time, you will have no friends.

I am well aware that the bagpipes are not everyone's ideal sound. Firstly, they are preposterously loud, particularly if you are in the same room(there are rumours that they can be heard 10 miles away). In the past, many a Christmas dinner Chez Nous has been enlivened by a set of bagpipes, and there is no pretending they are quiet. ....glasses shatter, small children cry, dogs whimper, cats howl, old ladies block their ears before bolting for the nearest exit. It's a jolly good way to clear a room, but it's fair to say, the pipes are not exactly 'easy listenin'.

But oh, how they make my heart ache...your ears, my heart. I have to admit, I cannot listen to one note on the pipes without my spine tingling, and before long, there's a glistening about the eyes. The skirl o' the pipes must be one of the most atmospheric sounds there is, a sound which lies very close to the soul of this nation. Wherever I am in the world, the slightest hint of the pipes is the fastest route back home, enough to induce instant projectile weeping and a ridiculously self-indulgent longing for the mountains and glens of one's childhood. You'd think I might grow out of this kind of thing, but no...it's becoming worse with age. In a decade or so I'll be a jibbering emotional wreck if I go on like this. It really is verging on the pathetic.

It's odd that bagpipes are so peculiarly Scottish nowadays. After all, a form of the instrument is mentioned in the Bible, and it is almost certain that they were played in Ancient Egypt. Many countries had some form of bagpipes at one time, but today, if you think of the pipes, it's almost impossible to think of any nation other than Scotland. While many countries were becoming less and less interested in the instrument, it seemed to suit the culture of the Highlands. The pipes were spectacular for playing outside, so useful for weddings, funerals, Highland games, processions and battlefields (they still play a significant role in theatres of war today). At one time, a Highland piper was a person of immense esteem, and in battle, if he could play well, nothing else was required of him.

Nowadays, you might think all this piping nonsense is just an act, a piece of kitsch cow-towing to the tourist market...really, in 2010, what is the point of dressing up like something off a short-bread tin and parading about in the cold?

You might also think piping was going out of fashion, that the younger generation are not particularly interested in this most ancient of sounds. After all, it looks like the most appalling effort to have to get a note out of the things...why bovver?

I can assure you, there is no cow-towing, and there's plenty of keen young lungs being puffed up to deliver a decent 'skirl'. A set of bagpipes is a seriously cool piece of kit round here, and nobody messes with the piper, wherever he, or she, may pipe. And check out the clothes? The togs are a total groove...only a wimp would miss out on the chance to put that lot on.

Since our return to this fair land, you wouldn't believe the number of times my shell-likes have been treated to a quick blast from someone's pipes. I hadn't realized they were so prevalent, nor that I had missed them so intensely while abroad....they are everywhere, from the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, to the Kirk door, to the village hall on a Thursday night.

It's tremendous. If you listen to a good piper, and if you can afford to risk having your ears blown off, you will find no better illustration of the turbulent emotional undercurrent that lies beneath the stoical outward appearance of many a Scot. Prepare to be moved.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - SEEKING EXCELLENCE IN THE YOUNG

2010-09-09T14:20:00.004+02:00

'Hey, don't diss me, Mum.'

'If I had the slightest idea what that meant, I probably wouldn't 'diss' you, but if you'd take your elbows off the table and speak English, I wouldn't have to comment.'

Whether 'to diss' is to disappoint, disapprove, disassociate, dispense advice, discipline, disparage, or despair, I am desperate to discover. But, despite the long road towards the creation of civilized youths, this plaintive plea from the young caused me to pause. We probably ARE too critical of our young people, and perhaps we DO demand too much of them...the awful thing is, I don't think we should allow standards to slip simply because 'things are different now, ' and there's a recession on and we're all a bit strapped for cash. I don't think I'm the only one either. This morning I heard that the journalist Simon Heffer thinks we have been slipping way too far...he's been sending round-robin emails to his colleagues at The Telegraph pointing out grammatical errors. They may have found this kind of pedantry deeply irritating, but I suspect they were fascinated too...so now he's done a book about all our mistakes. (I'm scared, let me tell you.)

I think we're talking 'constructive criticism' here, and I mention it because I care....about grammar, about standards in general, but primarily about our young people. After all, they are the ones who have to find employment one day, and look after us lot in the future. And I object to everyone telling them things are easier nowadays, that they know nothing, that they are spoilt. Things ARE different, but they are certainly not easier.

Right now there is an almighty scramble going on amongst many school-leavers and their parents. The scramble is caused by the seeking of, preparing for and taking up of university and college places. Apart from deciding where and what to study, there are so many other major details to sort out. Where to live, what in, and with whom? What equipment will they need? How will they travel? And what to wear...we're talking 'image' and that in itself is enough to induce a paralysis of indecision. And then there's the vulgar question of cash...none of this comes cheap. It's all very new and confusing. By the time the new student is established in his or her room with their brand new duvet and fresh stationary, a microwave curry sitting on the desk, the parental hearts are aching in a toxic mix of relief and empty-nester angst.

I'm told, this wears off. Later on, however, many students admit to the real shock, a nasty surprise that many of them hadn't anticipated. They have to work. Imagine! I cannot believe how many times I have heard of students admitting to their parents that they had no idea what hard work was until they went to university...these are A Graders, with stars, bells and whistles, who sailed though school without any problems, collecting music exams, trophies, medals and awards all the way in addition to their glittering academic results. Sure they want to do a degree while making new friends and broadening their horizons, but oops...the fly in the academic ointment is, they have to sit down and work hard for it. ( This is not the universal experience, of course...it does rather depend what and where you are studying.)

I know it is not fashionable to say that school exams are not what they were, but everyone past a certain age isn't daft. However, criticising the system does not make things any easier for our school-leavers. They have to work within the system of their day. The struggle to pass exams with top marks while winning medals for Scotland, becoming a concert pianist and saving the world is immense. How on earth the Universities are meant to determine who should win a place and who should not is impossible to fathom... we are producing vast numbers of apparently brilliant school-leavers, and it is hard to pick between them...they might as well pick names out of a hat.

As Scottish education in schools moves towards the 'Curriculum for Excellence' we have to hope that it will do what it says on the tin...create 'excellence'. Perhaps it's a matter of opinion, but I don't feel I am unusual in hoping schools will teach children to spell and add efficiently, all children, academic or not. We need a population of well-rounded human beings that can communicate properly, a population that can work to the very best of their ability. I like the sound of 'excellence'.

But we also need a population that cares...and by 'caring', I mean a rounding-off of the edges, as well as the more obvious respecting, nurturing, and loving. I can't stand it when people criticize our young people...I think they are fantastic.... but equally, I don't want them to be short-changed because we can't be bothered to make them aim high. It works both ways...I won't 'diss' you if you, just once in a while, pay attention to the boring details I, in my decrepitude, witter on about.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - SPIRIT OF THE BLITZ

2010-09-07T15:31:00.001+02:00

70 years ago tonight, The Blitz started over London, the horrifying bombing raid carried out by Germany's Luftwaffe that went on from September 1940 to May 1941.Hitler's aim, apart from destroying Britain's docks, shipbuilding potential, munitions factories and more, was to destroy morale, to defeat us psychologically as well as physically. Somehow, despite almost 1000 planes being spotted in the sky on the first night of it all, we didn't let him. We still talk about The Spirit of the Blitz. And still, somehow, in 2010, we know what it means.

It started over London, and in thinking of The Blitz, London is often the background image that comes to mind....sirens sounding through the dark, fire belching from blown-out windows, lines of people sheltering in underground stations, pictures of the King and Queen picking their way across heaps of rubble that had once been a street of houses. But the bombing raids took place right across Britain. In Scotland there were raids over Glasgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, Dundee and smaller places...but the worst, in terms of loss of life, was over Clydebank where 528 people were killed in one night, Scotland's biggest loss of life. Whole families were wiped out, communities physically destroyed, and 35,000 people were made homeless.

By the end of the Blitz over 43,000 civilians had been killed, half of them in London, and well over a million homes had been destroyed. But throughout it all, throughout Britain, the trains kept running, the traffic kept moving, people went Christmas shopping, held parties, sang songs, and children kept playing.

Norway's experience of World War 11 was of course very different from that of Britain. I have written about it already, back in April on the 70th anniversary of the Occupation of Norway. Although 70 years may seem like a long, long time, it is clear that the War and the Occupation have had a lasting influence on Norway. Older generations worry that the younger ones will not know enough about Norway's experience of the War, and not be able to understand it. But I have often been told that the War influenced the culture and the structure of the nation more than anything else, so I cannot believe that younger generations are wholly ignorant of the events of the 1940s. To have lived under Occupation for 5 years must have been shattering, a 'slow-burn' sort of wound that inevitably left a lasting impression.

Like Norway, people in the UK often think the young know nothing of the War and do not care to hear about, as though it is irrelevant to their 21st century lives. But I would argue with that. Apart from the fact that I have always found young people to be very interested in WW11, our children are taught about it all in school. However, outside the history classroom, the War has left a mark that runs deep within our psyche. For most of us, Remembrance Day in November is still significant, whichever war we are remembering....every city, town and village has a War Memorial, we've all seen the films and the documentaries, and we all have families who have stories from those times to pass on.

It is still known as Britain's Darkest Hour, and it was seven decades ago, but if someone talks about The Spirit of the Blitz, we still have a fairly decent grasp of just what the phrase might mean.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - THE URGE TO RECORD

2010-09-05T14:10:00.000+02:00

Will you or won't you? Should you or shouldn't you? Could you or couldn't you? Or maybe you've already gone and done it.

Bought the book, I mean. And read it. That one just published, you know, by that ex Prime Minister of ours, Mr Blair. We're all a-flutter over here in the UK, because you kind of want to read it, but you kind of don't. It sounds fascinating, but to be caught flicking through the latest ex PM's offering could be seen as a lapse of taste.

I suppose it's inevitable that if you've been a PM you will succumb to the urge to pen your memoirs. Most of them do, and some of them are good reads. But this particular example is apparently rather startling, revealing all sorts of indiscretions about the PM's colleagues and acquaintances that leave the reader wincing. All the political correspondents and journalists who have spent years covering the goings-on at Westminster are shattered by it, their eyes watering in disbelief at the cringe-worthy content....one dedicated soul offered an honest apology to his listeners and viewers, saying that he was sorry he had reported mere rumours and tittle-tattle because the truth was FAR worse and he should have been more 'on the case'.

The especially jaw-dropping aspect to these memoirs is the manner in which our former PM reveals the thorny relationship he had with his Chancellor, and ultimately his successor, Gordon Brown. Having met one protagonist, but not the other, I can only say that one is rumoured to be absolutely charming, while the other IS absolutely charming, but not necessarily rumoured to be so. To read an account of the relationship between the two would feel like being forced to examine their dirty washing, an experience I feel I can live without.

We all know politics is fraught with argument and discussion, and riddled with strong characters firing off on ruthless ambition. No, what shocks us is the blunt, unforgiving indiscretions, the seeking of excuses, the terrific effort to ensure that the narrator of these memoirs carves out the right sort of historical legacy for himself. It's all so horribly undignified and the very antithesis of statesmanlike behaviour.

The national consternation at these memoirs has left me wondering about the manner in which people write about their own lives. A second, extremely distasteful political story of the week, which I shall not recount here, was initiated by the thoughts of one of those dreaded bloggers...so now, bloggers are being reported to be bitter, vindictive, talentless losers. And I cannot deny that SOME blogs appear to fall into that category...but not all (we live in hope).

But why do so many of us feel the need to write memoirs, diaries, and now blogs? Undoubtedly such scribblings can offer a place for the writer to record events, to 'download' their feelings, and unfankle their thoughts. They may even offer a form of comfort and therapy. But memoirs are of course intended for public consumption, and so inevitably contain a level of spin, as in Tony Blair's case, where he is apparently desperate to explain himself in order to alter the public's perception of his time in office. But such works do not necessarily make the best reading. If we're talking politics, you can't really beat the Diaries of Alan Clark, Conservative MP, self-confessed snob and bounder....the intrigue, the back-stabbing, the bullying of Westminster is there for all to see, but perhaps most-surprising of all, he admits to his endless love/lust for Margaret Thatcher, not something most people would admit to if they were seeking 'spin'. But what a writer.

By way of diversion, I have been following the Diary of Samuel Pepys, handily presented every day on the blogosphere. He recorded his daily life in the London of the 1660s, a life led on the fringes of many important parliamentary, state and other events, including the Fire of London in 1666. He wrote in code, so clearly his diary was private...it is therefore extremely honest, personal, and opinionated. But as he left a key to the code hidden in his library, he must have meant it to be read after his time. Perhaps he knew, in the back of his mind, what a significant historical account he was creating for the future.

However, if you've had enough of politics and affairs of state, I was thinking about one of the most charming and successful memoirs I know, and one which gives a personal but well-observed account of family life and social change in Scotland in the 1840s. 'Memoirs of a Highland Lady', written by Elizabeth Grant (1797 - 1886) concerns life on and beyond her family's estate at Rothiemurchus. It remains proof that not all of us who record our lives are doing so with 'spin'.

I am interested to learn of any other favourite memoirs or diaries. Let me know.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - LET'S DO LUNCH

2010-09-03T20:45:00.001+02:00

'D'ye fancy a Glesga' Salad?' asked the Glaswegian waiter.

'Fit's a Glasgow Salad,' replied the confused, but hungry, Aberdonian.

'Och, it's a big poke o' chips wi' two pickled onions on the top.'

There's nothing like a decent jibe at ourselves to tickle the humour valves of many a tartan heart. And there's plenty of material involving food since a number of choice dishes in Scotland are hilariously unhealthy. Really, it's just as well we can laugh, although we should, of course, be appalled...the amount of fat, sugar, salt and other naughty delights stashed into the Scottish diet is enough to stop those tartan hearts well before their time.

I hate to deflate the thrill of that Deep Fried Mars Bar you were about to scoff with your Hot Chocolate Marshmallow Sundae, but this is a frightening fact. We know that most of the western world is putting on too much weight and not taking enough physical exercise, but within Europe we Scots are amongst the worst culprits. Researchers into these matters have recently declared that Scots are the most unhealthy of the four nations in Britain. We drink more, we smoke more and we eat more junk. As a result of all this over-indulgence, our life expectancy is lower than people south of the border. Men in Scotland could expect to live to 75 years, women to 79.9, while in England, male life expectancy is 77.7 years and female 81.9. We now have the highest death rates from heart disease and lung cancer and the second highest death rates from stroke in Western Europe.

What the blazes is going on? Why are we like this? Some might say 'well DUH, it's obvious if you eat, drink and smoke to the ludicrous extent that you do'. I always think it must get awfully dull for GPs to keep having to tell patients to stop indulging in rubbish when they know they'll have to repeat the same message to the same people before they see either a negative or a positive outcome (I think that's how medics put it).

So perhaps we should do that very British thing of blaming the weather. The Scottish climate may not be the loveliest, but it's not the worst one either, and when the sun DOES shine, the place is positively award-winning. (Come see, if you're not here already.)

So is there something in our Scots genes that makes us prone to indulge? We don't know that yet, but some boffinish types have their suspicions, so we'll have to hope enough cash is found to keep doing research into these matters.

Perhaps the statistics reflect the considerable levels of deprivation that still exist in our society....where poverty creates depression, seeking solace through unwise substances is not uncommon. And Scotland, sadly, still has horrifying levels of deprivation in certain places.

But I have another suggestion. It was around lunchtime when I watched a bloke in a suit park his car while stuffing a sandwich into his gob. Without removing the sarnie from his nashers, he jumped out of the car, locked it, checked his watch, frowned, swore, and ran up the road with his briefcase in one hand and his mobile wedged between ear and shoulder. It was Stress-On-Legs, and it made me sigh.

A recent French study has found that HOW people eat can affect their health, not just WHAT they eat. The French have always taken meals very, very seriously as we know....but now, what with the recession, long working hours and all, even THEY have been skipping the three course lunch-around-a-table in favour of a hasty and solitary slurp between meetings. And guess what? Their health is apparently suffering. It seems that food should be enjoyed with others, in a sociable setting around a table, where the participants are likely to eat less, more slowly. 'Breaking bread together' might be more important than we thought, and meals should not be seen as mere nourishment for the body, but for the mind and the soul too.

Let's do lunch.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - REMOTE CONTROL

2010-09-01T11:37:00.002+02:00

I stated a while ago that we Scots are now a far more urban society than you Norwegians. But of course this was not always the case, and our roots lie very deeply within our landscape. It’s exactly 80 years since the evacuation of one of the remotest places in Europe, the island of St Kilda. Situated 41 miles (66 K) west of Benbecula in the Outer Hebrides, the St Kildan archipelago is about as remote as you could be, a veritable outpost, where only the hardiest of folk could survive.

And they did, for centuries. Archaeologists have discovered Bronze Age and Iron Age finds, and judging by the Norse brooches and vessels found there, and with place names like Oiseval and Ruaival, anyone could tell Vikings showed up too...most likely the Norwegian variety.

The St Kildans eeked out a living any way they could. Cattle and sheep were kept, barley and oats were cultivated, and fish were caught. The steep cliffs of St Kilda still provide a major breeding ground for fulmars, puffins and gannets, all of which the inhabitants caught for food, feathers and oil. They were undoubtedly resourceful, but they were not necessarily in charge of their own destiny. The records of 1697 show a population of 180, hardworking people who paid rent (in kind) to their distant landlord, MacLeod of Dunvegan in Skye.

The people lived together at Village Bay. They were of Hebridean stock and spoke Gaelic, and there was very little contact with the mainland. By the 19th century a church, a manse and a school had been built. The factor arrived once a year to collect rent, accompanied by a minister who would conduct weddings and christenings. But as contact with the outside world increased, many young people started to leave the island for a better life.

Having lost most of their able-bodied inhabitants, the elderly population were becoming fearful for their future. Resources were few, medical emergencies were proving too hard to cope with, and the remaining 36 people asked to be resettled. So eighty years ago, they packed up their belongings and left the island for good.

You’ll be wondering why I don’t have a nice picture of St Kilda itself. Well, of course I haven’t been there...it’s a World Heritage Site, owned and managed by the National Trust for Scotland and visitors are few and far between. But as the eightieth anniversary of the evacuation is marked, I’ve had ‘remote populations’ on my mind for another reason. I find the old black and white pictures of these remarkable islanders extraordinarily moving...unassuming, diligent, dignified folk who sought to remain independent, but who ultimately found life on the edge intolerable.

The world is currently wising up to the true costs of oil, underlined as they are by the disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. Now, recent discoveries have sparked off a new wave of interest in the North Sea. As I write, activists are making their views on deepwater drilling very clear as they demonstrate off the coast of Greenland. But it’s not just environmental activists that are worried about the hazards of this kind of extraction...we are all concerned about our environment , and that includes every oil man and woman I have ever met. I think we’ve had one of the most graphic demonstrations of WHY a safe, clean industry is vital to our future prosperity.

When one looks at what oil has done for Norway (Norway’s Oil Fund is currently estimated to be around £300 billion) and Scotland (although some would say we should have benefitted far more than we have....answers on a postcard please) the question of how we and our neighbouring nations approach the future is crucial. The leader of Greenland’s Inuit people has been in Scotland this week to discuss this very issue. Aqqaluk Lynge, who chairs the Inuit Circumpolar Conference, says he fears his people’s lack of experience in negotiating oil deals will allow the international community to take advantage (Denmark granted Greenland self-rule last year, but land remains the property of the Danish Crown, so any profits from oil in the surrounding seas could go to Denmark or other countries).

Here’s the thing. St Kilda lies along the Atlantic margin, a line of north-westerly trending troughs that run from Ireland to Northern Norway...it marks a split between Europe and Greenland which started 80 - 110 million years ago. The intrusive rocks of St Kilda date to 55 million years – a similar Tertiary age to those of Skye, Rhum, Eigg, Mull and Staffa, where magma entered the cracks and fractures adjacent to the newly opening North Atlantic. The basins off the coasts of Norway, Greenland and the Faroes have allowed marine microplankton to form the potential source rock for the recovery of oil in the future. In other words, any population situated on either side of the Atlantic margin could potentially benefit from the natural resources beneath them. I wonder what those St Kildans would be thinking if they were still on their island now.

The harsh realities of making a living in small, remote communities is often misunderstood, whether by activists, multi-national companies, governments and the rest of us who prefer a more comfortable existence ....let’s hope that however we approach the future, we do it with the utmost care, fairness, safety and concern for both people and planet.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - IN THE BAG

2010-08-30T00:54:00.002+02:00

Apparently, over the last four years, we Scots have used four billion fewer plastic bags. This is good news because there was great debate at one time about HOW to persuade the public to wean themselves of placky bags...surely a lack of bags might deter the shopper from spending, and the economy would suffer? On the other hand, we use far too many bags, they are a nuisance, cause litter and do not degrade....so the Members of our Scottish Parliament, the MSPs, debated long and hard about whether or not to impose a ban on free bags. In the end, they rejected the idea.

Doom and gloom was predicted, with people saying this was a lost opportunity, shoppers wouldn’t like it and litter would continue to increase. But, we have proved the doom-merchants wrong. Which just goes to show, we’re not the small-minded dimwits some people might think.

I suspect the MSPs knew that occasionally it is possible to teach an old dog new tricks, that once in a while, you don’t have to patronize a population to make them behave....I reckon most Scots, at least any Scot who respects and cares for their own nation, is only too delighted to adapt and change the habits of a lifetime. Having to remember your own bags is rather a pleasing and satisfying task, making us feel like good citizens and allowing us to pat ourselves on the back.

BUT...what HAS been driving us all mad is the Voice in the Machine.

Let me explain. You have your jute shopping bags ready to be filled, you have selected a trolley-load of shopping, you head towards the checkout and see that the queues are long and slow. Ah-ha, you say as your eye spots a vacant checkout machine....I’ll just use that instead of a human.

You approach with slight trepidation, but think that it’s about time you grew up and stepped into 2010. You press a big round button.

‘Place your bag in the loading bay,’ says some woman who must be hiding in the machine. Clearly she’s gathered you’re perplexed...perhaps she’ll help, although she sounds a wee bit fierce. You stash your environmentally-sound jute bags on a small metal shelf, expecting her to say,

‘Not there, you fool....duh, don’t you have eyes?’

But she doesn’t. A button flashes instead, so you press that, simply because you can’t think of anything else to do right then. A line-drawing of a hand holding a turnip appears. The turnip is ‘shown’ to a screen. But you don’t have a turnip in your trolley. Failed.

You decide to try a packet of breakfast cereal and show it to your machine for approval. Nothing happens. You wave it about a bit. Nothing. You twirl it around a little and PING.

‘Please place the item in the bag,’ says Bossy Wifey.

Good plan, you think as you find a bunch of bananas in your trolley. PING.

‘Please place the item in the bag,’ she says again.

‘OK, OK I get the drift,’ you tell her, grabbing a carton of fruit juice. PING.

‘Please place the item in the bag.’

‘You’re not seriously going to say that for all 142 items in the trolley are you?’Pancakes. PING.

‘Please place the item in the bag.’

Now you’re miffed. ‘Well now, Missus, there’s an idea. And I was just thinking I’d put them on my head and wear them up the High Street just for a lark.’ She’s not amused. Her voice doesn’t falter for a split second. Furniture polish. PING.

‘Please place the item in the bag.’

‘What happens if I don’t? I might go wild and stuff it under my oxter ...what then, huh?’ Shampoo. PING.

‘Please place the item in the bag.’

‘No. I’m going to squirt it down your jacksie and see how you like that, you bossy bisum.’

By the time you’ve got through all 142 items you’re about ready to thump her one...but you reckon she’s hard so it would hurt. You press a few more buttons, cough up the lolly, and wobble out of the shop feeling as though your brain has just been fried.

What I cannot fathom is this...if The Scottish Shopper is intelligent enough to remember to bring their own bags to the shop in the first place, to be trusted enough to park in a minute space without injury to other shoppers or nearby vehicles, to recycle their rubbish into the correct bins outside the shop before entering, to be able while shopping to plan several large meals while remembering four people’s birthdays, a couple of thank you pressies, a very specific stationary request from school, exactly the right sort of washing powder, and a paddling pool in case it’s ever hot again (we can fantasize, surely), why on earth does that woman in the machine think we are so incredibly THICK?

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - ALL VERY FRUITY

2010-08-28T07:07:00.001+02:00

At this time of year, with fruit ripening on many a bush and hedgerow, in the hope that this won't be too much information for you, Oh Gentle Reader, we need to talk about guts.

It is a well-known fact that a change of location can affect one's internal plumbing to some extent. It could be a change of diet, different water or just pure stress, but something is playing havoc with the bits we can't see. Since we're having a 'shopping' theme for the time being, I feel I can't ignore this issue. After all, we all have guts, and if they're not functioning efficiently, it can be rather awkward. And therein lies a whole new marketing opportunity.

While executing my latest supermarket excursion, I stopped before a giant fridge full of products which boasted specific intention. Dinky bottles and tubs glinted at me from the shelves, each one promising to tend the gut, to enhance natural bacteria and restore a gastric balance. I could purchase some 'probiotic' culture which would not only support my natural defences, but ease digestive transit into the bargain. Marvellous, I thought, just what the doctor ordered, not that she had.

So I've launched a consumer test to see what might happen if I give the plumbing system a dash of 'friendly' bacteria. Hence several rooms of this house currently resemble a suite of laboratories, replete with wall-charts, spreadsheets, and other accoutrements, all in the spirit of acclimatization, you understand. The only trouble is, so far, my boffin-like dabbling is sadly failing to yield any conclusions.

The truth is, I don't think we in the West are terribly honest about guts. We all have them, after all, so why not bring them up in conversation more often? In some places, it is quite the thing to inquire about other people's insides...it shows you care. I'll never forget a complete stranger approaching me on a station platform, a blazing Asian sun belting down on us as we consumed some unrecognisable fast-food ...'may I just ask, Lady, what is your religion and is your stomach behaving itself?'....I've only ever been asked this kind of thing in hospital, so I was mildly surprised, but I thanked him for his concern, and we all launched into a lengthy, graphic and most pleasing conversation about the state of our digestive tracts while we waiting for the train.

I'm not yet 100% convinced that all these 'probiotic', fruity-creamy-things in wee bottles make me more 'balanced', (now that really would be a revolutionary product) but I'll give them a shot for a while, and at least they taste quite nice. In the meantime, while on my morning walk, I passed a raspberry.

Oh, ha-ha-dee-ha, very funny. Ok then, I WALKED passed a raspberry, and couldn't resist. It's the time of year here in Scotland, Norway and many other northern-type places, when we are surrounded by ripening fruit, festooning the hedgerows, woodlands and moors wherever the country walker might stroll. There is no 'choice' here....there is simply the sheer joy of coming across something delicious growing in the wild that is incredibly good for your heart, your brain and, I feel sure, your stomach. And it's free....you see, there IS such a thing as a free lunch.

So I scoffed the raspberry, and then a few more for good measure. What could be more pleasurable than a wild berry?

Can't wait for the brambles.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - SO MUCH STUFF

2010-08-25T15:33:00.000+02:00

Well, I'm confused. Just how many hours are there in a day? A mere 24. So how am I expected to get around the supermarket in that time? Food shopping in this country has become one of the most complicated, time-consuming, confusing occupations there is. There's just SO MUCH STUFF in those places, I can't see the wood for the trees. When did we start needing this level of choice?

It was all so much simpler in Norway. Once I had mastered enough of the lingo to know what I was actually buying, I became an expert, and very speedy, shopper. But it was a very different art with very different aims. All I had to do was feed the family in a satisfying, healthy and enjoyable manner, whereas over here I need to achieve new culinary heights while experiencing the cuisine of several different cultures and be politically correct at every meal...it's exhausting.

For example, in the first few weeks of living in Norway, there were several occasions when I arrived at the cash-point, my trolley BURSTING with a week's supply of food for a family, only to be met with a severe frown and a big 'Tut tut tut,' from the cashier. Clearly they were absolutely appalled that anyone could be so profligate, so greedy, so lacking in moral conscience, and so careless with their cash. Apparently the 'weekly shop' is a non-Norwegian concept, and I must say, once I realized I'd need to take out a bank loan to pay for it, I caught on pronto.

BUT....now that I have returned to the land of plenty, I am completely confused. Why is there so much stuff in our shops? How on earth is anyone meant to know what the heck to buy anyway? The choice is utterly bewildering and it's giving me a headache.

Take pasta sauce. People were starting to stare, but I toughed it out and stood in front of the Pasta Sauce Department in a local supermarket earlier today and counted no fewer than 92 different sorts of pasta sauce. What? Are we going completely mad? Seriously, 92. And that wasn't counting the differently-sized jars, that was just the different makes and flavours, with the added variation of organic, non-organic, free-range, reduced-fat, reduced-salt, reduced-something-else sauces. Nor was I counting the fresh ones in a fridge somewhere else in this Aladdin's Cave of Convenience. Supposing we had pasta in this household once a week, it would take almost two years to try each one, by which point several would have been discontinued while, no doubt, some cheffy-type-character invented several more...Battered Mung Bean with Roasted Neck-of-Pheasant, or Artichoke-Heart and Cab-Sauv-Seepage Sauce. I mean honestly...it's bananas (eugh...perhaps that would be taking it too far).

Apart from the fact that I'm suffering from Analysis Paralysis while presented with all this choice, I'm also experiencing an uncomfortable dilemma. Choice is good, but too much choice is just confusing. I open the kitchen cupboard here to be greeted by a wall of celebrities, each promoting their own brand of fat-free-authentic-organic-happy-sauce by slapping their weel-kent chops all over the packaging. It's like turning on the telly in there. In Norway, our local shop had three pasta sauces, two red and one green. After testing these, which were fine, we ended up making our own, which was nicer, cheaper, more plentiful and uses up all those unappealing left-overs lurking in the back of the fridge without the offspring noticing. With one part of my brain, I congratulated myself on my good-husbandry, while with the other I was aching for a huge shelf-load of easy, convenient options. But what I really liked was the fact that we all had to be less picky, less precious, less spoilt. And we absolutely did not waste any food.

So now, I'm utterly delighted and deeply perplexed at the same time. Choice I like, and everything sounds so delicious on each label I keep breaking into spontaneous salivation as I meander through the aisles. I admire the enterprise stashed behind every new bottle, jar or packet, and where there is enterprise there are likely to be employed people helping to build our economy. So that is a comfort at any rate. But I also know that too much choice is not necessarily a good thing. Those who moniter society's mental state have expressed concern, sensing that too many options are making us indecisive, unable to cope effectively, and leading some people to depression as they strive to conform and keep up with the Jones.

Still. We have to eat. See you in several days time while I find some supper.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - BIG HAIRY SCOTSMEN

2010-08-23T17:55:00.002+02:00

There's nothing quite like a Big Hairy Scotsman to keep us amused. A friend jetted in from the Continent, never having visited Scotland before. Without flinching, we wheeched her directly to some Highland Games, as though this was quite normal and we did this kind of thing every weekend. (Having said that, at this time of year, there are those that do exactly that every weekend.) There she was confronted by some splendid examples of the BHS, resplendent in the get-up required for the Heavy Events (throwing the hammer, putting the light stone, putting the heavy stone, and even the odd tossing of a caber).

While her petite stilettos puncturing the damp turf beneath, she nervously nibbled on a Haggis Buttie, clearly wondering if she'd landed in the set of Brigadoon....talk about cliché...this was verging on the cruel.

'Aye,' remarked our neighbour in the crowd, glancing at our friend's Armani tailoring and subtly matching Hermes scarf, 'they're a fair bunch o' stoatin' loons. It's enough to put hairs on ony'one's chest just watching this kind of shenanigans.' A mild blush crept across her Mediterranean complexion, but her eyes were bright with intrigue as she observed the fine examples of manhood before us.

It was really all very reassuring. Truth is, while living in Norway, one forgets that anyone else is super-strong, super-fit, and capable of keeping themselves in trim. The Norwegians are so spectacularly into outdoor activity it's hard not to be struck by their insatiable desire to cycle up vertical slopes with rocks on their backs, or ski across an Arctic landscape for several weeks with just a few pieces of dried-out cod to keep them company. Reading about Scotland in the press, it is nothing but a barrage of information on how unfit we Scots are, how fat we are, how prone to disease and depression, how young we die. It's enough to make you top yourself. Apparently, we are becoming a nation of couch potatoes, and it's all going to cost us a fortune in the future.

There are times when a Scot abroad must wonder what on earth they are coming back home to...a nation of obese, drunken, drug-addicted smokers who have no concern for their health. The individual abroad must have faith that, while we know the figures and statistics are hair-raisingly bad, the majority of us still care about our health and do at least attempt to do something about it. Nobody could ever deny that these statistics are anything less than shocking, and we must concentrate on how to deal with our national eating, drinking and drug problems...evidently, whatever we have been doing up until now has not been working sufficiently, (although evidence shows that we are making little chinks of progress in some areas, so it's worth the effort). But it's not every one of us.

So it was with some relief that I watched the Big Hairy Scotsmen as they went about their caber-tossing. Frankly, the whole spectacle could only be described as very impressive indeed, and proof that we are not the bunch of tossers the media would like to make out.

And of course, there is one particular BHS I must mention here as he's been in the news this week. I first came across him when I was 13, and haven't stopped laughing since. It is impossible to even look at the man without laughing, even when he hasn't uttered a syllable. He is of course, our beloved Billy Connolly, who has just been awarded the Freedom of the City by Glasgow. Which I'm sure will be a relief to him since he is now permitted to graze his cattle of Glasgow Green...phew, he was worrying about that.

Now for those of you reading this abroad who may not have come across Billy Connolly, all I can say is how on earth have you managed without him up to this point? He is the ultimate Big Hairy Scotsman who is automatically programmed to make us laugh, so much so I can't understand why he's not available on the National Health. Be prepared for a few sweary words, (you have been warned) and I hope you can manage his 'Glasgwegian Patter', but look him up some place and he'll make you fall off that couch and roll about on the floor in paroxysms of mirth. The perfect tonic.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - SCOT ON THE ROCKS

2010-08-21T18:24:00.001+02:00

Standing about on some granite earlier, I was wondering just what kind of an effect a rock has on a person. I spent hours in Norway in the pursuit of that famous pastime, 'Norwegian-Rock-Based-Sea-Gazing' and the habit hasn't worn off yet. So I wondered, you know how some people look like their dogs? Well, maybe some people look and even feel like their rocks. Ah ha...a new game... spot a person's place of origin with the help of a geological map.

Take Aberdeen, otherwise known as the Granite City. If you happen to be born there, does it mean you are grey, or pink, very hard but likely to glitter in the sun? If you live on the slopes of Castle Hill in Edinburgh, perhaps you were once prone to volcanic explosion, but, having attended anger management classes, you've settled down now. If you were brought up in a Glaswegian sandstone tenement, do you have a softer side, and are your pores prone to weather-induced erosion? If you are from Tyndrum, might you have a heart of gold? With Skye often referred to as 'Dinosaur Island' due to the seven species of dinosaur that have been found there, do you feel like something out of 'Jurassic Park'? And what of all those people in the Outer Hebrides who live on top of the Lewisian Gneiss...we know they are all very, very nice indeed but do they feel like the oldest people in the world?

I know I'm starting to hallucinate, but there is a mind-bending side to geology that can take the imagination into the realms of lurid fantasy. Take those people who live in the Outer Hebrides like Lewis and Harris, North and South Uist etc. Their 'Lewisian Gneiss' is reckoned to be one of the oldest rocks on the planet, a shattering 2,800,000,000 years...that's almost 3 thousand million years old....you'd need to be a Time Lord to comprehend what that means. But the truly splendid thing about Lewisian Gneiss is that they've got it in North America too. So, if you're in Stornoway and feel a sudden, haunting, telepathic connection with someone in North East Labrador, don't be surprised. You're just in tune with the planet.

We're talking 'plate movement'. Even now, the land on the Earth's surface is constantly on the move. Rocks speak you know, and what they say is that at one time, Canada, Greenland and Scotland were all part of the same geological plate...we were physically attached. We were also situated south of the Equator, so we were 'hot', which would account for all the desert sandstone that crops up around Scotland. However, even now we're on the move, shifting further and further away from America....at the same speed as my toenails grow (fashionista that I am, I painted them as part of a scientific experiment ....any motion is disappointingly invisible to the human eye, but it is none-the-less interesting to observe that some parts of me are still growing, even if it is just in an outward direction).

The other equally startling (and some would say ironic) fact about plates is this...Scotland was completely separate from England. The two were divided by the Iapetus Ocean, with Scandinavia off to the side somewhere. About 400 million years ago, the Iapetus Ocean decided to close...just like that... so Scotland and England crashed together (creating some rather splendid mountains - The Southern Uplands - in the process) and we've been stuck with each other ever since.

Rocks just can't help but influence us simply because their structure dictates what happens on top of them. We might mine them, quarry, drill, grind, farm on them, sculpt and build with them or just use them for outdoor leisure and entertainment. We're lucky in Scotland in that we have a cracking selection of rocks from all the geological periods...excellent news for anoraks and other likeable nerds. So, whether you're standing on something Sedimentary (Jurassic, Permo-triassic, Carboniferous, Devonian, Silurian, Ordovician or Cambrian), Igneous (Intrusive or Volcanic) or Metamorphic (Dalradian or Lewisian), I hope it's showing you a good time.

Next time, no more rocks, promise...but for now, having gained permission from a well-connected acquaintance of mine to use the following lines, I leave you with the thoughts of poet Hugh MacDiarmid.

'We must be humble. We are so easily baffled by appearances
And do not realize that these stones are one with the stars.
It makes no difference to them whether they are high or low,
Mountain peak or ocean floor, palace, or pigsty.
There are plenty of ruined buildings in the world but no ruined stones.
No visitor comes from the stars
But is the same as they are. '

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - GEOLOGY

2010-08-19T11:56:00.000+02:00

In considering this nation, it seems sensible to start with the stuff that formed the country in the first place. I'm not sure we give the rocks on which we stand the credit they really deserve. If they hadn't bothered to show up in the first place, none of us would be here at all, and then where would we be?

You might think it's a bit rich to claim Geology as an Unspeakably Scots Thing, and it is verging on cheek since, after all, rock forms the whole planet. If you slice through Earth like a peach, you would reach the inner core, then the outer core, the mantle and finally the crust. Unless you happen to be at sea, in the air or in space right now, you're on a teeny weeny bit of crust. If Mount Everest were on the aforementioned peach, it would be naught but a grain of sand. It is in our understanding of these matters that Scotland has played a respectable contribution, so indulge me here... particularly since the acknowledged 'Father of Modern Geology' was a Scot.

During the Enlightenment, (one of Scotland's Absolute Best Things...let's have another one), James Hutton was hanging out in Edinburgh with his mates, a spectacularly nerdy bunch of guys which included Joseph Black the chemist and Adam Smith, the economist and philosopher. Despite achieving a medical degree from Edinburgh University, James decided to farm, an occupation which sparked off his interest in rocks. Presumably because he and his pals didn't waste time watching Eastenders, they chilled out by just being very brainy. For James, rocks just could not have been more fascinating, and after a while he came up with his most famous book, 'Theory of the Earth'.

It's an ambitious title, and it changed people's thinking....considering all I can come up with of an evening is a shopping list for tomorrow's edibles, it does make me wonder what I've been doing all these years. I don't know what it is about nerdy swots, but I have a bit of thing about them....imagine being able to enhance our understanding of the universe just by staring at stuff...(mental note - must stand about staring vacantly into space more often). Hutton's theory was revolutionary in that he put forward the idea of a rock cycle, in which old rocks were destroyed by weathering and new ones were formed from their sediments.

This rock at Siccar Point near Dunbar, is a Mecca for geologists. Known as 'Hutton's Unconformity', he worked out that the junction between the vertical and horizontal rocks represented a gap in time of many millions of years. Up until now, Time had been limited to the biblical 4000-6000 or so years - 'Hutton's Unconformity' gave him the proof he needed that rocks were far older.

This was Big News, and an almighty shock to society too. But it was just the start of Scotland's contribution to geology. Five years after Hutton died in 1797, Hugh Miller was born in Cromarty on the Black Isle. His father had been lost at sea when Hugh was only five, so he was brought up in straightened circumstances with a minimal education. However, when he started work as a stonemason, he became obsessed by the fossils he found amongst the rocks. He looked at ammonites in the Eathie Burn and noticed that their shapes changed as they moved up the rock...Evolution. Time began to stretch from thousands of years to millions. For a deeply religious man whose beliefs were rigidly anchored to a creationist interpretation of events, this realization was nothing short of terrifying.

As his work took him to different areas of Scotland, Miller also became concerned with the social hardships he had witnessed, (especially the Clearances) and by 1829 his urge to write had taken over. He produced verse, and wrote articles on social and political matters, theology and Church politics. Soon his knack for communicating established him as an icon of Victorian Scotland.

However, despite his success Miller suffered a tragic end. Religion was vital to him, but he was never able to reconcile his scientific findings with his religious beliefs. Tortured by his own discoveries, he shot himself on Christmas Eve in 1856. His last work, 'The Testimony of the Rocks' was published posthumously in 1857 and it is clear that his ideas held considerable influence on Charles Darwin ('The Origin of Species' was published in 1859).

So, while standing on a bit of crust today, I was trying to add up just what these guys had achieved. I can't help thinking that if they were around nowadays, both of them might well be some kind of oil man.

Relish your crust.

UNSPEAKABLY SCOTS THING - THE ROAD HOME

2010-08-17T17:27:00.002+02:00

Hold onto your hats...we're here. Big Ed, my Unforgiving and Hideously Pedantic Editor, has been sitting on my shoulder like a nagging ghost, pestering me to get going, so, if you can stand it, let's carry on from where we left off.

How long does it take, once physically landed, to feel properly at home? Whatever the returnee anticipates is of little consequence, because sure as eggs is eggs, the road home is bound to be littered with unavoidable surprises, some pleasant, some less so, and some about as thrilling as finding mouse droppings in your ski boot. Oh, and place your bets on how long it will be until I feel 'normal' again. I didn't expect to experience 'Return Shock' but apparently it's a common syndrome. One slight flaw...nobody ever pretended I was 'normal' in the first place.

However, the time has come to end this wimp-ridden procrastination, to stop finding excuses like 'the equipment sucks/cable is fried/ desk is all shooglie/mad hair day/brain tired from providing hitherto unheard-of summer hols entertainment for the youths around me'. Enough. A few 'posts' are in order...maybe not every day, but often enough to offer You, Precious Reader, something to do other than twiddling your thumbs while waiting for the kettle to boil/bus to arrive/sun to come out/brambles to ripen/jam to set/fish to bite/dreamboat to appear. It's time to take note, to see how Scotland has been getting along without us, to see what has changed, what is better, or worse, what works, what stinks, how we are and how we are shaping up for the future. Nowhere is perfect, as I have already pointed out, but there are plenty of folk who still believe, despite endlessly depressing news stories, that we Scots have enough fuel left in our individual tanks to make a decent stab at things. It's not very fashionable, but I'd prefer to concentrate on the positive.

Upon arrival in this fair land, the initial impressions were startlingly vivid. Casting an eye down from the plane window, I realized it could take months for my vision to readjust to the non-norsk colours. The city of Aberdeen was doing that Grey Thing it does so expertly. Surrounded by a neat patchwork of green fields, the city itself was relentlessly grey...grey buildings, grey roads, grey water, with a grey sky overhead just to top it all off. This Grey Thing has a habit of hanging around rather more than some of us might wish. I recall a German friend who arrived to stay in Aberdeen and was astonished at this Grey Thing....'Vy, ven zee sky and sea are so grey vould anyvone ever zink of building an entire city of grey houses as vell...if zis is some kind of Scottish joke, it's not very vitty.'' I tried to explain about the granite, but she was having none of it. And I couldn't blame her. Until you have experienced an Aberdeen 'haar', you have no concept of what it means to miss the sun.

However, upon leaving the airport and quickly driving through summer fields, the Grey Thing turned green. Very, very green. A profusion of lush, verdant, abundant vegetation burst from the hedgerows onto the roads, swathes of foliage cast gargantuan shadows across the tarmac. (That would be grey tarmac.) Everything looked wild, overgrown, in need of a bit of a trim.

And that has been the main theme so far....coping with the greenery. I find myself living in a non-tropical jungle where all manner of wildlife and vegetation, both desired and unwanted, has been having a field day. So the return home has been fraught with 'where are the clippers, the extending loppers, the trimmer, the strimmer, the chain-saw, the mower, the tractor, the petrol, the axle grease, the boiler-suit, the ear-defenders and the hardhat? Oh, and where is the handy-man to help me with all this?'

Ah, there's the rub. The TA (Technical Assistant, you will remember) is still sunning himself in Norway for now, his guilt at not being here eased by a temporary return to the pleasures of bachelordom. But that's the Oil Industry for you....partners parted and apart for weeks and months at a time. However, despite the technical setback, from now on, I'll show up here - if you will. In between perfecting my edgings and neatening off the topiary, I'll be reflecting upon what it is to return to the land of one's birth....I'd be delighted if you check in from time to time.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - DOORS

2010-06-09T09:30:00.000+02:00

As one door closes, another one opens.

Our final day in Norway, so my last post from this side of the North Sea. There are heaps of subjects I have not yet tackled with regard to this great nation, but perhaps some of them might crop up once I start blogging from across the sea, in a ‘compare and contrast’ kind of a way.

On the other hand, I’m wondering what sort of topics might strike me as worth writing about over there in Scotland....what will astound, astonish, annoy, irritate, delight, or surprise me once I return home? Promise me, if I start going on ad nauseam about pot-holes in the road, litter, bad driving or people stuffing their faces with chips while in the street, you will let me know I’m boring the proverbials off you and tell me to put a sock in it. Readers at this here stopping place are way too precious to risk the onslaught of ennui with the minute frustrations of life.

However, I do know that returning to one’s own nation is not always all it is cracked up to be. One might assume that going home would be easy, that slipping back into one’s old life would be a doddle. I mean, you know where stuff is, you speak the lingo, you've driven there for years, you know what the food is, and you’ve got friends and family there....what could be simpler? But that’s the thing about living in another country....you have a very different perspective, you become frustrated with aspects of life that never occurred to you before, you can’t help feeling that they do certain things better abroad. Heated bathroom floors, for example.

I know many Scots who have returned home and found life surprising in both good and bad ways. Likewise, I know many Norwegians who say the same thing once they have returned to Norway from elsewhere. I suppose it all goes to show that we learn from each other and that, thankfully, ‘nobody is perfect’.

So, I’ll be doing some weeping at the airport later on today. Just ignore the snivelling wreck you may spot at check-in...it’s all part of the moving process. Once home, I may take some time to get things in order. The TA, amongst other things, is under full instruction to pay urgent attention to one’s electronic communication systems, but nobody can tell how long this may take. So if I don’t post a blog for a wee bit, it’s not because I’m not thinking about you. Seriously, you’re in my heart for keeps.

Of course I have to quote our national bard Robert Burns here, and the most ‘weel kent’ lines from his poem ‘To A Louse.’

‘O wad some Power the giftie gie us,
To see oursels as ithers see us.’

Thank you Norway, it’s been a blast.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - PEACE

2010-06-08T10:04:00.001+02:00

If you sat down one morning and read your own obituary in a newspaper, would it change the way you went about living the rest of your life? For one famous Swede, just such a scenario took place, an event he later viewed as a sort of blessing. His actions, as a result of this curious incident, turned out to be a gift to the world too.

Alfred Bernhart Nobel was born in Stockholm, Sweden in 1833. He became a successful chemist, engineer, and innovator, with 355 different patents to his name. The trouble was, his most well-known invention happened to be dynamite, which, although useful, caused mayhem on a massive scale....certainly not a blessing to humanity.

It was in 1888 that Alfred’s brother Ludwig died, and a newspaper made the mistake of thinking Ludwig, rather than Alfred, had been the one who had made his fortune from dynamite. The headline read ‘The Merchant of Death is Dead’ and condemned him for his deadly invention.

Nobel was horrified, and became determined to alter the legacy he was leaving behind. He left most of his vast fortune to the setting up of the various prizes that are now awarded by the Nobel Committee in Sweden....physics, chemistry, medicine, literature and economics. But it is perhaps the most famous, the Nobel Peace Prize, that is awarded annually in Oslo on the anniversary of Nobel’s death, 10th December 1898.

In 1895 when Alfred Nobel drew up his will stipulating the rules of the prize, he insisted that the responsibility for the Peace Prize should be delegated to the Norwegian Storting (Parliament). Ever since the first Peace Prize was given to Jean Henri Dunant in 1901, the Swiss founder of the Red Cross, it has been awarded in Oslo.

Nowadays, when someone like Barack Obama comes to Norway to accept the Nobel Peace Prize, the world watches. Over the years, it has been awarded to Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, Lech Walensa, the 14th Dalai Lama, Mikhail Gorbachev, and Nelson Mandela to name just a few. The Prize Committee has a serious job on its hands in making a selection each year, and I wonder if such a responsibility has any kind of effect on Norway as a nation. Having survived five years of Occupation within living memory, ‘Peace’ is highly cherished. Norway is a wealthy nation, but it is also a small one...it plays a valuable role within international relations and takes a keen interest in how to solve problems in the world’s trouble spots. Norwegians were involved in peace processes in Sri Lanka, El Salvador, Sudan, Nicaragua and the former Yugoslavia. In 1993 the Norwegian contribution to the peace process in the Middle East led to what has become known as the Oslo Accord between Israel and the PLO.

You might think that a small country has no real political weight within international politics, and that for any one individual to try to work towards peace is naive and ridiculously optimistic. But I’ve been reading a book that proves every individual effort is not only worthwhile but necessary. A friend pointed me towards ‘A Billion Lives’ by Jan Egeland. Despite growing up in a comfortable home in Stavanger, Egeland was well-aware of the difficulties other people faced across the world. As a teenager he became involved in campaigning for human rights, and before long had established a career for himself. Described nowadays as a ‘veteran peacemaker’, he became the UN Undersecretary-General for Humanitarian Affairs and worked in Darfur, Eastern-Congo, Lebanon, Gaza, Northern Israel, Northern Uganda and Colombia. He is now the Director General of the Norwegian Institute of International Affairs, and was indeed the initiator of the Norwegian channel between Israel and the PLO that lead to the Oslo Accord.

Egeland quotes Henrik Ibsen at the start of his book : ‘A community is like a ship. Everyone ought to be able to take the helm.’ But it is a remark Egeland makes himself that fills the reader with hope, despite everything.

‘For the vast majority of people, the world is getting better, there is more peace, more people fed and educated, and fewer forced to become refugees than a generation ago. So there is reason for optimism.’ Egeland’s story is a testament to the fact that one person, despite their privileged background, can do a great deal of good. Go read.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - AURORA BOREALIS

2010-06-07T09:22:00.000+02:00

Have you ever seen the Northern Lights?

I’ve seen them several times from Scotland, but not from Norway, as yet. I have a few days left and it’s June and I’m in the south of Norway, so my chances are virtually nil right now. But I have my spies, so I’m sure I’ll see them a few more times before the century is over. The best time to catch them is meant to be between October and March, and the further north you go, the better your chances.

But nothing is certain with ‘the Tricky Lady’ as she is called. We humans have no definite way of forecasting when this extraordinary phenomenon is likely to appear.

Now, here’s the scientific bit.....just so you know. The Aurora Borealis is caused by streams of charged particles from the sun, the solar winds, flowing past and elongating the earth’s magnetic field in the polar regions (if you happen to be in the southern hemisphere, you’ll obviously be looking out for the ‘Aurora Australis’ instead). Since the field curves in a sort of halo surrounding the magnetic poles, the charged particles are drawn down towards the earth. As they react with electrons in the upper atmosphere, around 160K above the earth, energy is released which creates a visible ‘aurora’. It’s estimated that during a time of high activity, one single ‘aurorial storm’ can produce a trillion watts of electricity.

If anyone can think of a more extraordinary natural sight, I should like to know what it could be...perhaps it is the fact that you are not guaranteed to see it that makes the Aurora Borealis so thrilling. If you are lucky enough to witness it, you might see great streaks of vibrating light, pillars, wisps, and haloes of pale green, light yellow or rose. In times of extreme activity, the colours can be deeper green, a brighter yellow and crimson. Great sheets of pure colour waft about in the sky, and if you didn’t know it was a naturally occurring phenomenon, you might well be terrified out of your wits. Even the most sceptical of humans cannot help thinking that seeing such a sight feels like a genuine gift from some sort of higher power. Over the centuries, all sorts of beliefs, myths and legends have grown up around the aurora, and however the science might enlighten us, I cannot think that people will ever cease to wonder at it.

Er, did I have a camera with me each time I saw the Northern Lights? Nope. You’ll just have to believe me. But I refer you to a fellow blogger, Kjetil Skogli, a photographer and tour guide based in Tromso, and an expert on the Aurora Borealis. I could never compete with his photographs which will take your breath away. Find them at http://foto.kskogli.no

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - LOFOTEN

2010-06-04T10:11:00.001+02:00

It’s a hot topic right now, over here. It’s been in the news again today. It’s also one of the most beautiful and unbelievable places I have ever seen.

Lofoten is the name of a string of islands that stick out of the north-western coast of Norway like a crooked finger pointing into the Norwegian Sea. Until we went there, I had no idea of the scale and majesty of the place. It’s as though someone thought, ‘hmm, let’s have a big, cool, high mountain range that sticks right out of the sea and slap it onto the side of Norway.’ Did someone move the Alps, or what? These are seriously big, steep mountains that you really can’t believe when you just see a photograph.

Not everyone would choose to go inside the Arctic Circle for their summer hols, but this time of year is a great time to go, thanks to the Midnight Sun I mentioned the other day. The mountains have scatterings of snow on them, and fall down to open meadows and glorious beaches...my kind of beaches, with nobody else is on them. You are more or less sure of having the beach to yourself, which is useful, because you must not miss the opportunity of swimming in the sea within the Arctic Circle and you might want to do some very loud screaming.

Right now, if you happen to live in Lofoten, there’s a very good chance you make your lolly through fishing. If not, you will no doubt be indirectly involved in an industry that has created a vibrant economy for the area for centuries. Rich fishing grounds have been created by the meeting of the warm waters of the Gulf Stream and the icy Arctic Ocean, creating an excellent habitat for spawning arctic cod from the Barents Sea. The cod stocks have dwindled in recent years, but as you can see from the multitude of drying racks on which the fish are ‘hung out to dry’, this is still Lofoten’s largest industry. The product, known as ‘stock fish’, is sent to Spain, Portugal and Italy to make ‘bacalao’. Meanwhile, the cod heads are exported to Nigeria where they are boiled with peanuts and hot peppers to make a soup. Lofoten children can earn a krone or two by removing the cod tongues which are, at a later date, boiled up in salt water and served with gravy. Something to try on a dark night, I guess.

It is an industry that has survived for centuries, but the future is uncertain. So now, a very different industry is being discussed, hence Lofoten is in the news. Several oil and gas companies are waiting for the area to be opened up to allow them to drill. They estimate there could be rich pickings, and that a whole new way of life could support the local population and the Norwegian economy as a whole. However, with the disaster in the Gulf of Mexico on everyone’s mind, the environmental lobby has stepped up its argument against drilling off Lofoten. They argue that should such a disaster ever happen here, it would not only be tragic for the ecology of the area, but icy waters and dark winters could make an oil spill even harder to clean up.

It was around this time of year that we sat on a Lofoten beach at midnight, each of us wrapped in a reindeer skin, watching our children dart in and out of the punishingly cold sea with the sun never quite disappearing but bouncing off the horizon like a ball. Time concertinaed into nano-seconds. Stone Age Man, Viking children, medieval fisher-folk, whaling families must all have done exactly the same. The sense of time and space that such a place can present is awe-inspiring. It was as though those Vikings and all the others had only just left the beach...who could guess what might be coming along next?

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - AMUNDSEN'S GRIT

2010-06-02T21:48:00.003+02:00

Today I gazed upon the face of Roald Amundsen. It was a picture of a statue, I admit, but all the same, it was enough to remind me of the man’s steely grit. I was flagging on the cleaning front, having packed up the house and being left on cleaning duty, it was becoming DECIDEDLY BORING. Luckily I came across Roald’s craggy stare just as I was wondering how to skive out of the housework, and he more or less ordered me to stop lounging around on the lawn and get on with it.

Roald Amundsen was of course famous for being hot on leadership, and famous for being hot on leadership in very cold places. I, meanwhile, am particularly unhot on cleaning, but unlike Roald, I had not been planning this as my vocation since childhood. So he had a head start, you might say.

Little Roald was born at Borge near Sarpsborg in 1872 . Despite the place being situated on the southern coast of Norway, from an early age he was interested in properly freezing places and dreamed of being a polar explorer. He read every book on the subject he could get his fleecy mitts on, but his Mum was having none of it.

‘Oh Roald, why seek the North West Passage?’ she asked. ‘Just because Sir John Franklin failed to do it in 1845 doesn’t mean it’s up to you....now be a good boy and go study medicine.’

Which he did. Until she died. And then he immediately began studying for his master’s licence (he had already decided that most polar expeditions failed as a result of poor leadership). By 1897 he was sailing to the Antarctic as the first mate on a Belgian expedition when the ship froze into the ice and the captain fell ill with scurvy. Amundsen took command and over the next 13 months, with the ship encased in ice, he successfully displayed his remarkable leadership skills along with his famous grit.

In 1903 Amundsen set sail from Oslo to realize his dream of finding the North West Passage. After two years of taking magnetic readings, studying the Inuit and learning how to drive dog teams, they sailed on and successfully navigated the North West Passage. Tick Number One. Something to write on Facebook, at least.

So the next goal was to reach the North Pole, but just after persuading his good friend Nansen to lend him is ship ‘Fram’, Amundsen heard that Robert Peary had just reached the Pole. ‘Oh bother,’ said Roald as he turned his attention to the South Pole instead.

As he set off in 1910 he heard that Robert Falcon Scott had come up with the same plan and a British expedition was already underway. The race was on. Amundsen’s party arrived at the South Pole on 14th December 1911. And, as every British school child knows, Scott’s party arrived at the Pole on 17th January 1912, only to find the Norwegian flag already there.

I find the stories of both of these extraordinary men and their expeditions very moving. Scott’s was tragic, not just because he had failed to reach the Pole first, but because he and four other men died of starvation and cold on the route back. But he has also gone down in history as being one of the great leaders of the last century, and the story of his ill-fated expedition is gripping. For some reason, Amundsen’s achievement has been felt by historians to have made the expedition look too easy. Well, I’d like to see THEM try. Others have argued that perhaps Amundsen, having studied the Inuit and learnt how to work with nature very closely, was better prepared than Scott, and that Scott was also unlucky.

The real point is that both of them displayed exceptional leadership skills, and both of them did reach the South Pole. It was a great moment for the newly independent Norway, and we Brits all know what the Norwegian flag looks like when planted in snow as a result.

This particular statue of Amundsen is in Tromso. I was wondering why the tourist shop up there doesn't sell 'Amundsen Grit' in little bottles. It's useful stuff.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - MIDNIGHT SUN

2010-06-01T22:07:00.001+02:00

These light, light nights. June has arrived, and the main question is, how on earth do we get the children to go to sleep? These days, 10 pm feels like the middle of the afternoon and I’m more or less ready for a cup of tea and a macaroon. Nobody is tired, nobody can imagine why they should be sent to bed, and unless you happen to have curtains that cut out the light with maximum efficiency, you might as well try to sleep in broad-daylight. Once again, the body clock is going awol.

But how puny are our efforts compared to those who live in the far north of Norway. The human inhabitants there are experts at looking after their body clocks, whereas we tourists, up there one June a couple of years ago, we were absolutely useless.

We were north of the Arctic Circle. ‘Anyone fancy dinner?’ I vaguely asked when I happened to observe the time was 11.30 at night. I had no idea when we had enjoyed lunch, but meal times had even less relevance than bedtimes.

I suspect those who live in the Land of the Midnight Sun are extremely strict with themselves. This was clearly demonstrated when I happened to find myself in a hotel bar in Tromso on the evening of the Midnight Sun Marathon. I was quietly congratulating myself on my very feeble effort in the shortest race of that great event (ie, I had skilfully avoided having to take part in the WHOLE marathon....frankly the fact I was even in town when such a thing was taking place was a personal best in itself....I think it is fair to say I am the opposite of everything a runner should be, but I didn’t allow that fact to get in the way of a good race).

However, having completed the course, I was enjoying a small and ruinously expensive beer in a Tromso High Street bar, and I felt it my duty to sit at the window and admire the passing marathon runners....they were the Real Thing in that they were running the full marathon which had started at about 8pm. We were enjoying the spectacle, and trying to guess what sort of music each contestant might be playing to themselves by the pace it was setting for them, when a huge Norwegian barman started to close the blinds, very carefully. What form of madness was this, I asked myself. He was going about it in a very business-like manner, and not taking any flack from anyone.

I was astonished. Clearly he had no idea that the customers over whom he was reaching were engaged and entertained by the drama taking place outside the window. The whole bar was glued to the marathon outside....how could he possibly want to blot out the view?

When he arrived at our window, I mildly enquired just what the blazes he thought he was up to...he was, as I say, immense, so I made sure I was being polite.

‘Is it absolutely necessary to close the blinds? We’re watching to see if our friends go past...they’re running, you know, in that marathon outside.’ I mean honestly, how many marathons does the city of Tromso have in a year?

‘It is 11pm,’ he said very firmly, without a flicker of emotion crossing his very serious face. ‘We always close the blinds at 11pm. It is too light. This is very important. We will not feel tired.’

I was FAR to scared to argue. I’d never lived north of the Arctic Circle...what did I know?

‘All this light,’ I remarked, ‘it must be rather a contrast to your long, dark winters, I suppose. I think I might go mad if I lived here.’

‘Exactly,' he growled. 'We could all go mad at any moment. We have three solid months of no light at all in winter, and now we have THIS,’ he pointed aggressively in the direction of the sun.

I shrank back into my ignorant tourist mode. Eventually I managed to pluck up enough courage to sneak a few peeks at the runners by forcing a wee viewing hole in the slats when the guy wasn’t looking. Luckily, I wasn’t caught.

But in a way I rather admired his attitude. It was as if those who knew how to live within the Arctic Circle were more finely-tuned to nature than the rest of us....they knew something everyone else had forgotten, that humans need to sleep in the dark, and it is therefore a natural human activity to make sure it IS dark, even when the sun is blazing away like crazy outside.

Good night and sleep tight, wherever you are.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - STARING OUT TO SEA

2010-05-30T21:40:00.000+02:00

And so the sun is setting on our last day in the house on the rock by the sea. The view from here has changed with every minute of every day we have been here. You could live your whole life here and never grow tired of that view, never cease gazing at it, never be able to resist the temptation to lean out of the window and try to capture its mezmerising essence inside your camera. My efforts, and those of the TA, are hopeless compared to Nature herself, but we can’t resist trying.

You could become obsessed. It seems the sun, the same old sun, has never once looked the same, while the moon, the same old moon, has astonished us with its ever-changing variety of form. The sky startles and stuns, with every shift in mood a piece of theatre. All day long the look of the sea tells the story of the weather and the time of year....what is the wind doing, where is it coming from, how strong is it, how cold will it be?

You might think we would have grown accustomed to this continual drama, that after several years we might feel we had seen it all and experienced every kind of weather the elements could throw at us. It’s just sea and sky, after all.

But no. You would have to be insane not to marvel at the astonishing spectacles to which we have been treated. And then, there’s the man-made drama too. Ships come and go, trade continues, voyages are made, fish, lobster and prawns are caught, oilrig service vessels continue to supply the rigs, choppers batter about in the sky. Here the sea is a busy stage and yet it simply reflects the reality of living in a place which is a centre for the oil industry.

But at the moment the view is bitter-sweet...not because we are leaving, but because it is impossible to look at a coastal scene from an ‘oil-town’ and not be deeply saddened by current events in the Gulf of Mexico. Those connected to the oil industry are not exactly flavour of the month right now...more like ‘scum of the earth’, filthy polluters who care nothing for nature, the environment, the planet.

Once upon a time, an oil man was one of those Texans who arrived in Aberdeen in the early 60s and strode up and down Union Street in his Stetson and spurs. He was well-known for mocking the Scots, for telling us we were lazy, useless and ‘no darn good at extractin’ that black gold from any old place’...he was renowned for creating havoc in order to ‘get rich quick’. But over the years, he, along with the Scots, the Norwegians and many others, has learnt and grown with the industry, and now I reckon we know that Texan guy a whole lot better than we know say, a hedge-fund manager or a City trader in London.

The horrifying events in the Gulf of Mexico right now affect people in the industry all around the globe. Guys have been hauled out of projects all over the place to head off to the Gulf of Mexico to add their expertise to solving the problem. Meanwhile, others have stepped in to fill their shoes. It’s as though Nature is laughing at us, saying we humans are fools to interfere with things we do not understand. And perhaps we are, but it seems to be Man’s nature to do so, and while we continue to live in the Oil Age, we need to be honest about how oil is extracted, where from, and at what cost.

The disaster is every oilman’s nightmare, and so we are all watching and praying for a solution. That solution will have to be found...there is no choice. I know there are some great brains in this industry, some brilliant minds who thrive on the solving of problems...we have to hope they think of something pretty darn fast.

We have just been mere visitors here, to Norway, to this coast. But even if this was my own country, even if I owned the land myself, I still don’t believe I could feel anything other than a temporary caretaker. As I marvel once again at this view, and with the oil disaster weighing on my mind, I am reminded of a quote from the American James Audubon. I’m sure you will recall he was a painter of birds in the early 1800s, and to my mind, his extraordinarily acute understanding of nature sets his work way beyond the average. He said, ‘you don’t inherit the earth from your parents, you borrow it from your children.’

We have to hope this view will still be the same long, long, long after we are all gone.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - OSLO

2010-05-29T10:30:00.000+02:00

Europe descends on Oslo for the weekend....some sort of Euro-singing-jamboree, I believe. I’m not there myself...too many packing cases from which it is not possible to escape. But the whole event has brought the capital of this country, along with all its wonders, to the forefront of my mind. I may at present be situated on the opposite coast from that fair city, but as our neighbours back home in Scotland are from Oslo, and have taken the time and trouble to introduce us to their favourite metropolis, I do feel I know the place a bit.

However, before one can say anything about Oslo it is important to decide what to call those who reside in that glorious city. It came to my attention that the English language had no word for ‘one who comes from Oslo’. Thus it was up to us to coin a suitable term. So I’m having a think to see if there is any logic to the naming of a city’s inhabitants, and have decided, if there is any logic, it is well beyond the outer extremities of my no doubt illogical brain.

Look at Scotland. If you are from Glasgow, you are a Glasgwegian, which Americans are usually amazed to hear, and makes us sound as though we are distant cousins of the Norwegians (both of us are nick-named ‘Weegies’). Then we have Edinburghers, which sounds like a fast food, Aberdonians and Dundonians, which sound like something related to kebabs, and Invernesians, which I’ve always thought sounds a wee bit posh.

If one crosses the border, any kind of uniform pattern flies out of the window. Londoners are just fine, but what about Mancunians from Manchester, Geordies from Newcastle and Brummies from Birmingham? These may be peculiar labels but they are all worn with pride by the individuals who happen to sport them.

Looking at the rest of Europe, there is still no logic. Athenians and Romans sound extraordinarily old, biblical, classical and very civilized in an Empire-building kind of a way. Florentines sound lovely. Parisians we know are terribly sophisticated. Muscovites sound absolutely thrilling while Berliners have to describe themselves within the correct context for fear of being mistaken for a doughnut.

So we looked at the map of Norway. Stavanger must surely produce Stavangerites; Bergan, Berganians; Trondheim, Trondheimers, and Tromso, Tromsonians. But Oslo was proving more of a challenge....until one night while we were watching ‘Dr Who’ when a flash of inspiration struck.

Now here I have to digress. Some of you will know of ‘Dr Who’ whereas many will still have this delight to come. Quite why this man has been able to travel across time and several galaxies without making it across the Atlantic I cannot fathom. Suffice to say, every American and Canadian TV viewer who has seen ‘Dr Who’ while round at our place is amazed that British TV could ever come up with such a winning formula. We oldsters grew up with it, and are still to be found hiding behind sofas while it is being broadcast. At the moment it has an Invernesian in it, so I’m especially interested.

Anyway, to return to my theme, after an episode of ‘Dr Who’ we suddenly realised what we should be calling those who come from Oslo. It’s a great city, awash with fabulous culture, museums, the coolest of opera houses, and staggering views. It is an important centre for commerce, industry, banking, shipping, scientific endeavour, cultural and sporting activities. It has produced some top-drawer artists, musicians, writers, philosophers, scientists, academics, sportsmen and women, and it goes an absolute bundle on explorers. Oslo is ranked as the world’s most expensive city at the moment, with Tokyo, Copenhagen and Paris as runners up. There are over 1.4 million people in Oslo and they are currently the fastest growing population in Europe. Surely, these people deserve a decent name for themselves in the English language.

So now, in our house at least, we refer to them as ‘Osloids’. Any other suggestions very welcome...it would be nice to enter the Oxford English Dictionary.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - WHY LEAVE NORWAY?

2010-05-27T17:27:00.001+02:00

PM David Cameron moves his family into Number 10 Downing Street today, just as our packers arrive here and start boxing up our worldly goods ready for shipment home. Before I lose my precious radio, I’ve been listening to the BBC news.

So, we are returning to a country with one or two issues to sort out. I guess the PM will be too busy to do his own unpacking. He’s got his work cut out for him, after all. I’m going home to a country where:

1. Drunkenness appears to be out of control, but reluctance to put the price of booze up is not solving the problem. Is it just me, or is that what is currently known as a 'no brainer'? The last five years have seen an increase of 33% in alcohol-related injuries arriving at A&E, while in Scotland, Buckfast, the favourite cheap tipple of many a hardened drinker is thought to contain alarmingly high levels of caffeine, thus making consumers energetic as well as drunk, and so more likely to cause trouble.

2. A series of utterly barbaric and horrifying murders are currently appalling the nation.

3.. Scotland’s population is hooked on a ‘fly-on-the-wall’ documentary named ‘The Scheme’ which is shining a light on the lowest of the low... awash with drink, drugs, violence and a scary-looking dog, it’s been dubbed ‘poverty-porn’ . The trouble is, it’s real.

4. A series of Government cuts seem more than likely. Hold onto your hats.

5. Discipline in schools is apparently becoming worse, while levels of literacy and numeracy continue to decrease.

6.. We will work far longer hours than we do here in Norway, although not the longest in Europe, as is commonly thought

7. The population spends an average of 4 hours and 18 minutes per day watching TV, a far higher number of hours than other European nations. Presumably they are all too exhausted from their long working hours to get up off the sofa of an evening.

8. The average Brit spends 49 hours a year discussing the weather. Well it is endlessly changeable, and therefore fascinating.

9. ....oh yes, that Big Fat Deficit.

Hmm. Let me think. What is going to tempt me home and away from Norway? If I were to plan my life according to some of the stuff portrayed in the media, I would have to be nuts to even think about going home to Scotland. Luckily, the media is also covering another story today, one which is a reassuring relief to the heart and which restores one’s faith in humanity.

Today a fleet of small boats has been heading across to France from the South Coast of England to mark an important moment in history. Many of these vessels took part in the events of 70 years ago when exhausted Allied troops were stranded on the beaches at Dunkirk as the German forces advanced towards them. Over a thousand naval and civilian craft made the journey. It takes about 8 hours to sail across the Channel, and that is without being under heavy fire. Many of these little boats made the crossing several times, and in the end over 300,000 men were saved. It was a vast effort by ordinary, untrained people who simply wanted to help, and it was a key turning point in WW11.

But it also marks something else which, when the crunch comes, it seems the Brits are still capable of summoning up in themselves....the Dunkirk spirit. We’re British, of course, so one never admits to being much good at anything...it’s a national trait. But as Scotland, and Britain as a whole, are facing difficult economic, social, international and environmental challenges, I am not overcome with gloom. When I think of that flotilla of boats heading across the Channel, it's impossible not to feel that Brits are still pretty resilient.

Meanwhile, Mr Cameron, despite moving house, managed to amuse the nation this morning. Asked to give the daily horse racing tips on the radio, he had one minute to make up his mind. He reckoned if you are ‘a fan of the coalition’ you should back ‘Daring Dream’, while if you were ‘slightly more sceptical’ you should choose ‘Midnight Fantasy’. Apparently, it is hoped he is a better politician than tipster.

I wonder if he’ll have time to dig his favourite jammies out of the packing boxes...he needs his sleep.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - IN EXTREMIS

2010-05-26T15:11:00.000+02:00

Why is it only at moments of great magnitude, when in extremis, that I have to speak Norwegian? I have come to realise the reason one has to learn Norwegian is not to speak to Norwegians themselves, but to communicate with Poles, Latvians, Russians, Iranians, Somalis, Columbians and many others.

For women, one of the most stressful things about moving is finding a good, friendly, kind and very, very, very skilful hairdresser. There are many women who simply refuse to do the research involved, and resort to flying home to have their hair cut,(depending on the destination, this can work out to be cheaper anyway, fare included). But I had no time and horrendous hair....I rushed off and ended up with an utterly charming and very splendid Polish hairdresser who spoke good Norwegian but no English. Thus we chatted away in Norsk, she more than me, and supplemented our speech with numerous exaggerated hand gestures and meaningful pointing of digits. It was reminiscent of a 'Carry On' film, but the results were perfectly acceptable...the hair was fine, although the addled brain inside the head was exhausted.

And only yesterday I overheard a hilarious conversation as a Brit tried to explain to a Polish builder how to arrange the new tiles in his kitchen. A remarkably wide range of languages were employed, and one way and another, they came to an understanding.

Meanwhile, we have had a terrifically good Columbian dentist over here. It’s not especially easy speaking to a dentist in one’s own language as it is... with all sorts of industrial-looking hardware hanging out of one’s mouth, whatever language I chose to speak was unlikely to be at its best. My Spanish is Primary One level, and we hadn’t yet reached ‘dentistry’ so yet again I was obliged to communicate in Norsk. It wasn’t just the dental work that was excruciating.

A further example to back up my thesis occurred at the Legevakt itself, otherwise known as A&E. We were there to attend to an offspring’s broken arm, and had been waiting many, many hours. A very kind Iraqi nurse kept popping into the waiting room to check all was well (in Norsk) because we had been joined by a challenging fellow-patient, a fairly astonishing example of Norwegian masculinity.

A noisy and very large young man had appeared at the Legevakt holding his hand high in the air as blood surged down and dripped off his elbow. To say he was ‘out of his box’ would be putting it mildly...despite his drastic injury, he was so hyper he was quite unable to sit down. As he pranced and whirled about the waiting-room, he told me all about his injury in Norwegian, but once I asked if he spoke English, he went through the details several times again. He had been at a party with all his old mates from the drug rehabilitation centre when his best friend had stabbed him right through the hand. He didn’t blame him at all...I guess it was that sort of party. But he said it was quite interesting to have his hand pinned to the table with a kitchen knife. I vaguely inquired if it hurt.

‘No way,’ he replied. And here I must resort to using a ‘beep’....you may pick an expletive of your choice. ‘I’d already taken enough (beep) stuff, both in liquid and powder form, to deal with any (beep) pain I might be about to face. It’s no (beep) problem. It’s by no means the worst (beep) pain I have ever endured, I can (beep) assure you. ’

‘My, what florid English you speak? Where on earth did you learn to speak so.... fluently?’ I asked, trying to disguise my horror.

‘Off the (beep) telly, naturally. That Gordon Ramsey bloke. He’s so (beep) cool. I’ve been watching him for (beep) years...you learn a (beep) of a lot off him.’

‘Yes, I’m sure. Well I’m sure he’d be thrilled to know he’s teaching people to speak such terrific English as well as how to cook.’

‘Too (beep) right. Ramsay’s a (beep) genius.’

You see, even the most hyper Norwegian with a serious habit and a life-threatening injury is capable of speaking the most artfully phrased English. Really, it’s embarrassing.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - BEING INVISIBLE

2010-05-25T10:20:00.000+02:00

I am not invisible. I am not small, I make a noise, I wear a high-viz jacket, I move around a great deal and I have weird hair. I am quite hard to miss. So why do I feel I must be invisible?

This is a tricky subject to write about, but I have to do so. It is the one thing about arriving in Norway that strikes every foreigner like a blow to the head. People from every continent and hemisphere are stunned at this aspect of Norway, so you see, I can’t leave it out. The thing is, even Norwegians know about this odd aspect, mock themselves for it, and are quite prepared to admit it is very strange.

We have already seen that going for a walk in Norway is a form of recreation practised by one and all. Everyone else who arrives here is thoroughly encouraged to go for a walk too. The rewards are immense in terms of scenery, clear air, and more. But they are not necessarily social.

So Mr Tourist goes out for his first Norwegian walk and says ‘Hello’ to the first person he passes. He is amazed to be met with a blank stare. He says ‘Hello’ to the next person....this time he doesn’t even get a blank stare. He tries the Norwegian friendly version on the next one. ‘Hei hei,’ he remarks cheerfully. Not even a flicker of an eyelid as the passing walker marches straight ahead. He wonders if he looks a bit peculiar...maybe his lunch is all over his face, or maybe his flies are down, so people are trying to pretend he isn’t there at all. He tries again, and this time he is met with the tiniest of side-ways glances, but no accompanying smile. He starts to freak out...what the heck is wrong with him? He returns home and takes a good look at himself in the mirror.

The next day, Mr Tourist tries again, this time with a plan in mind. He walks a few kilometres around a lake while carrying out a survey. It turns out that one out of ten people says hello back to him. One or two more acknowledge his existence, but the rest fail to notice him at all.

Now as you know, I am hugely fond of Norwegians, especially those who are polar explorers or pianists. So this odd behaviour seems all the more peculiar in that it does not reflect the warm personality that I know lies within every Norwegian heart. But this is a seriously surprising aspect of life here, so I cannot leave it out...even dogs notice. A Scottish expat dog, sent here to work on some oil exploration project or other, was distinctly put out when nobody stopped to admire him and pat his head...he kept looking about as though to ask why everyone was ignoring him. He was quite miffed.

I mention all this today because in the UK, the Mental Health Foundation has announced that it is concerned about the increasing levels of loneliness that exist in Britain. As human beings are essentially social animals, the avoidance of loneliness is a key factor in maintaining our mental and physical wellbeing. The Foundation says one in ten people in the UK admit to feeling lonely: surprisingly, it occurs more often amongst the young than the old, and is a result of changing social circumstances....pressures of work make for less time to socialize, many pubs, social facilities and even post offices have closed, and with many people living alone due to families splitting up or moving away, an increase in loneliness is inevitable.

I happen to know that ‘social isolation’ is one of the key concerns within Norwegian society too....charities and aid organisations work hard at trying to ease loneliness amongst the most vulnerable but ‘social isolation’ is not an easy thing to quantify. My own utterly unscientific research in this field has consisted of counting reactions while out walking throughout the year, and I am convinced that the sun has something to do with it...if the sun is shining, far more people say hello and acknowledge each other. So perhaps levels of social interaction are related to wherever a population lives on the planet....the further north, the less they speak.

The funny thing is, I’ve got so used to this. The last time I went to Scotland and walked down the road, someone said ‘hello’ to me and I jumped out of my skin with surprise. I was quite shocked. It’s obviously catching.

By the by, have you ever looked really hard at Norway’s most famous painting, Munch’s ‘The Scream’? Apparently the idea for the work came to Munch while he was out walking and crossed a bridge near Oslo. Two people have just passed the main subject, and I strongly suspect they didn’t say ‘hello’.(Munch later said these were his friends, but I hae ma doots.) All he can do is allow a dollop of northern angst to take over in the form of a great big scream. It could be a silent scream...we can’t tell. But often, when I’m out walking and I feel invisible, I can’t help having the image of ‘The Scream’ flash before my eyes.

So if you think you’re invisible, don’t feel sad and lonely. You're not the only one. Everyone else is probably feeling the same.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - NORWEGIAN DESIGN

2010-05-24T09:52:00.002+02:00

Before leaving a place, whether it be a village, a city or a country, the less organised amongst us develop and overwhelming urge to rush about making sure they’ve ‘done everything, seen everything and bought everything’. This last category might surprise those who reckon Norway is hideously expensive, and therefore shopping of any sort, other than essentials, is an unnecessarily self-indulgent exercise.

I forced myself over this psychological hurdle and towards the end of last week, the plastic was being so well-used it almost melted. Spend, spend, spend...panic, panic, panic....make sure we have all the Norwegian items we forgot to buy over the last few years. Quite why all this has been left to the last minute eludes me completely, and it was suggested it might be easier if I just rush round to the souvenir shop and stock up on trolls. Please. I’m not a passing tourist. I’ve lived here for a while, checked out the scene and there are certain items, certain ‘objects’d’art’ that are only available here and represent Norway through and through. And I’m not talking trolls.

Scandinavian Design is of course famous for clean lines, pastel shades, beautiful craftsmanship, a certain calmness and clear intention. Less is more is more or less what we’re talking here. It has been said that, more than elsewhere in the world, Scandinavian Design as a whole has been instigated by the people themselves, and that it is democratic in that it not only seeks to enhance the quality of life, but to reach towards a social ideal. Affordable products, up-to-date technology and a practicality of purpose have been basic rules. If you want to be painfully academic about it, modern Scandinavian Design can be interpreted as having its roots in Lutherism, where truth, reason and the joys of hard work for the benefit of one’s fellow man were fundamental....thus a moral imperative lay at the heart of a design philosophy that enabled it to prosper.

But enough of all that ponsey guff. I would just like to point out there’s more to Scandinavian Design than IKEA, marvellous, elegant, useful and affordable though the IKEA phenomenon may be. And Norway has its very own sense of style, unique to this part of the continent.

Norwegian Design amply demonstrates the story of its population. With people separated by challenging geographical boundaries and a harsh climate, they often became largely self-sufficient. With long winter nights to get through, evening entertainment often lay in one’s skill on the loom, lathe or some other device....you made your own stuff. Thus, Norwegians passed on skills from one generation to the next. Tradition played a huge part, with influences being handed down from both the Vikings and the Sami people of the far North. A rich folk art culture evolved, a rural tradition rather than a sophisticated urban one, and its respect for materials, love of strong colour and good craftsmanship is still preserved in the very best of Norwegian Design today.

So if you need something spectacularly Norwegian, there’s a good choice of wonderful objects made from silver, pewter, wood, wool, glass and china that will bring you pleasure for years to come. Purchasing a troll in a souvenir shop is like buying a tartan Loch Ness Monster in the Highlands...it just doesn’t do the place any justice.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - CAMPING

2010-05-22T15:22:00.002+02:00

I lay there, ‘neath the nylon, feeling exactly like Tutankhamun. Unlike the young Pharaoh, I was encased in duck-down and merino, rather than gold and lapis lazuli, but hey, I was warmer than him. It would just have been nice to be able to move...why do sleeping bags have to taper down towards the bottom end? Do they think we don’t move our legs around just because we’re camping?

I’ve been moving camping gear, amongst other things, and that is why I’ve been reminded of all this. As a former West Coast of Scotland camper, I had sampled all sorts of camping gear in the past, but this was a new, bigger tent. So, would it be more comfortable? Comodious? Have more gadgets? Our Norwegian camping adventures took place last June, but as summer comes closer and the days lengthen, I can’t help recalling the experience. It was an outdoor, literary and marital mile-stone of a peculiarly Norwegian sort.

I lay there wide awake, quietly re-designing camping equipment in my mind, quite unable to sleep. After wondering if Tutankhamun ever got bored during his hundreds-of-years stint in a tomb, I eventually extracted a couple of arms, whizzed away on the wind-up torch and grabbed my book.

I must say, it was the ideal reading material. ‘Nansen’ by Roland Huntford, a big thick tome about how to be a polar explorer, and other useful tips. If you want to know anything about the Fabulous Fridtjof, Huntford is your man...it’s incredibly well-researched and utterly gripping. I flicked through to a picture of Nansen posing for a formal photograph of himself decked out in Dr Jaeger’s ‘Sanitary Woollen Clothing’. Ah, so that was his secret.

You see, as far as I can determine, it’s all about gear in this neck of the woods. Whatever you are doing, whatever the season or the reason, the time or the place, you need to have the best possible gear. Now Nansen was the boy as far as gear was concerned...TALK about being ahead of his time. Apparently people saw this happy-snappy of him in Dr Jaeger’s Sanitary Woollen Clothing and thought he was a wee bit cuckoo....until of course he went and skied across Greenland and they had to eat their words.

As Nansen demonstrated, the right piece of kit can save your life, never mind make things easier. It seems his passion for gear is alive and well in Norway, whether one is camping with one’s family or conquering a Pole. Luckily, the Norwegians are rather good at making sure their houses have terrifically generous storage areas. If we assume every Norwegian has several pairs of skis each, a cornucopia of ski boots, walking boots, snow boots and sailing boots, skates, a wet-suit, life-jackets, 236 hats, a bike, several tents and a wide selection of fishing equipment, any fool can see that a Norwegian needs storage. And that’s just for starters. By the time he gets hooked, he has also splashed out on a wind-surfer, a canoe (folding or otherwise), two extra bikes for different terrain, and a helmet for every occasion.

It was incredibly light outside the nylon, so hard to tell what might be counted as daytime. However, at an appropriate moment I checked my day-glow watch to discover the hour. Excellent...5am...I’m allowed to ‘get up’. I struggled out of my cocoon, realising that sleeping on the hard ground was not necessarily for the over 21s. I found someone’s wellie-boots and shoved them onto my merino-clad lower limbs. I was ready to seek out the facilities.

‘Why can’t they invent something for camping that stops you needing the loo?’ I asked nobody in particular.

‘Happy Wedding Anniversary,’ came the reply.

I was amazed. I thought people went to Paris, Venice or Marrakesh for that sort of thing. How come I was camping at the foot of a fjord? I unzipped the front door and peered out into the gloom.

‘Good Lord!’ I cried. ‘What the....that’s sensational.’

The absolutely vast back end of the QM11 was sitting in front of me, just a few metres from my face. Even in Geiranger Fjord, one of the most dramatic places in Norway, and a UNESCO World Heritage site, this new addition took my breath away. She must have stolen quietly into the fjord in the middle of the night....maybe I did get some shut-eye after all.

‘Oi,’ I said, poking the TA’s sleeping bag with a tent peg. ‘You have no idea what’s sitting out here?’

‘Wrong. I arranged it. As I say, Happy Anniversary.’

Aw.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - THE TENT

2010-05-20T22:08:00.000+02:00

I did rather hope that by this great age my camping days were behind me. Foolish misguided woman that I was....I’m in Norway, for heaven’s sake. You’re meant to go camping here. It says so in the instruction manual that goes with living in this place.

It’s around this time of year that Norwegians start fiddling about with all manner of outdoor equipment...summer outdoor equipment that is, because of course they only put away their winter stuff two minutes ago. Oh, oh, I sense a folding canoe looming.

And so, in the spirit of keen adventure, a tent was purchased, large enough to house our family and several very good friends. We decided to have a tent-erecting-rehearsal in the garden before setting off....nothing like trying to put one of those things up in lashing rain for the first time with one’s fellow campers sniggering from the comfort of their own expertly-erected canvas sanctuary. So we waited for a suitably sunny evening and set to it.

And that’s the thing about camping. It does rather tend to bring out the control freak within everyone. Particularly, I happened to notice, in the male of the species. At first, this was a joint, family-bonding kind of a project, but after fifteen minutes of peering at a set of Japanese instructions, I decided my best option was to stand well back and not do any laughing. At all.

Great swathes of sky-blue nylon were laid with care across the green lawn. Various thin poles emerged from a canvas bag and were pinned together into immense, wobbly lengths, then randomly slotted into narrow pockets of more nylon, this last in a subtly contrasting shade of slightly less pale blue. Then there was some swearing as someone realised a small error had been made, and the lengthy poles were unplugged from the first set of nylon pockets and redistributed into an alternative set, this time of a greyer hue. More swearing followed, in English and Norwegian, for those who might be interested.

I looked on, poker-faced. It’s always best not to speak, move or even emit a thought telepathically in these situations. I bit my lip very firmly and quite painfully, but soon had to break into a smile as a friendly neighbour appeared, as though to offer a helping hand. Instead, he offered a less than helpful comment.

‘I thought you Scotsmen were meant to be good engineers,’ he merrily japed.

I tried, I really did. But it was impossible to prevent unfettered mirth. The Scotsman engaged in trying to put up the tent was not even vaguely amused.

‘Ha ha dee ha,’ said an anonymous voice from beneath a heap of blue nylon.

I thought I should elaborate. ‘Not every Scotsman is an engineer, you know....some of us have other skills.’

The Norwegian was clearly wondering what these might be, so I continued. ‘Look, it’s all very well for you. You’ve probably done all the Norwegian camping you ever needed to in your youth, and no doubt in the snow, with knobs on. We have some catching up to do. And frankly, if we’re seriously meant to embrace this nation and all its wonders, I’ve been told that camping is inevitable.....the camping sites offer world-class views, and are not to be missed, apparently. So you'll just have to admire our willingness to be intrepid, endure our puny efforts, and thank your lucky stars you don’t have to join us.’

He smiled a quiet, Norwegian smile. ‘So, are you heading up north?’ he ventured.

‘Indeed,’ I said with magnificent conviction.

‘Then I wish you the very best of luck.’ This was of course very kind, but I couldn’t help thinking it was rather a loaded comment, and one gained from a wealth of under-canvas experience.

I sighed and retired inside to polish the folding canoe.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - LISTENING TO LEIF OVE

2010-05-19T09:21:00.004+02:00

While out on a coastal stroll, I was listening to two of my favourite Norwegians on my iPod. One of them was Grieg, for this was a recording of his Lyric Pieces for piano. The other was the person doing the piano-playing. It was extremely moving for, not only is this guy a super-star of the piano...he also happens to be the very first Norwegian with whom I shared dinner.

Who was yours? Unless you are Norwegian yourself, I’m sure you will be able to recall the moment. Norwegians, after all, are keen on meals and apt to rise to the sense of occasion dinner can provoke with admirable formality, delightful manners and sparkling conversation. I will apologize in advance. You will have to indulge me here, since my first Norwegian dinner companion was, and is, world famous, thus affording me a first class name-dropping opportunity. Listening to that music now, the lustre has not faded...he continues to remain one of my absolute favourite Norwegians.

It is an established fact that I am rather partial to a man on a piano. This inconvenient affliction has provided numerous exotic encounters and entertaining highlights, and even now shows little sign of abating. So imagine my delight when, many years ago and in a former role, I was tasked with taking the fabulous Leif Ove Andsnes to dinner.

Leif Ove had been in Scotland for several days and was appearing as the soloist for that particular week with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. Having delighted both Glasgow and Edinburgh with his genius, he was then escorted to the North East where he thrilled Aberdonians at the Music Hall. Afterwards, a hearty dinner had been arranged at which, whether he felt like it or not, he was obliged to sit with a famous conductor to his right and his assistant for the evening (that would be me) to his left.

Poor bloke. He was only 21. He was probably desperate to go out clubbing or something. Or at least put his feet up, order room service and watch the footie. But no, he got me instead, ever-so-slightly his senior and painfully interested in men who play pianos.

Despite everything, Leif Ove was charm itself. He spoke with eloquence of his childhood home on the Norwegian island of Karmoy, (gosh, we could have been neighbours, almost). He spoke of fjords, mountains and indeed skiing. He politely mentioned his admiration for the new Steinway that Glasgow had just purchased for its concert hall, and told me of the wondrous sea-view from his own piano at home. Naturally I was enthralled, not just by his conversation, his tales of Norway nor his fame, but his devastating demeanour may well have played a part. No doubt I bored him rigid with some utterly dreary rubbish, but he was gallant enough to look fascinated.

The next day, after playing like a god in Dundee, he hot-footed it back to Norway and will of course have absolutely no recollection of all this, particularly the part involving ‘moi’. Ah, plus ca change. The peripatetic nature of a world-class pianist’s job does not lend itself to remembering strange women at dinner. He had a fjord to get to, and he was anxious to concentrate on Beethoven and Rachmaninov . But it’s a dinner I am unlikely to forget.

So last winter, the very kind TA took me to hear and indeed see, the great Leif Ove once again. He strode onto the platform here in Stavanger, and immediately began an utterly masterful rendition of Mussorgsky’s ‘Pictures at an Exhibition’. From the moment he appeared and went ‘Dang, dang, dang, dagga-dung, daggu-dung, dang....etc’ I was spell-bound once again. His playing was sublime. He continued with Schumann’s ‘Kinderszenen’, during which the TA was compelled to hand me his silk handkerchief as I succumbed to waves of hopeless emotion. Leif Ove played for 80 minutes solid, without a single sheet of music before him, and stole my heart once again.

Honestly, these Norwegians. It’s not good for a girl. And to be a Norwegian and a piano player all wrapped into one...really, one's cup runneth over. That man can really, really, really play the piano. I dare you to listen and not be moved.

And I’m ordering you now...if Leif Ove is appearing at a piano near you, don’t miss him.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - 17TH MAY

2010-05-13T23:07:00.004+02:00

You cannot imagine how significant the 17th May is to Norwegians. I am writing this in advance of the actual date because I fully intend to spend the next few days in contemplation. As one about to leave these shores and head home to a country where constitutional and parliamentary change is all the rage, I plan to spend the next few days deliberating the soul of this nation....what does it take to build a nation, and just what is the appropriate way to celebrate it once it has been established?

I know the Norwegians are far too modest to think they have everything absolutely right, but I have to say, the manner in which they mark their nation’s independence every year on 17th May seems to me to represent an excellent model for such occasions.

On 17th May 1814 Norway became a ‘free, independent and an indivisible realm’ according to the new constitution that was agreed on that date at Eidsvoll. The Eidsvoll Constitution was effectively a compromise between absolutism and democracy, with Norway declaring itself independent of Denmark but being forced within the same year to accept union with Sweden. It was not until 91 years later that Norway gained true independence and those words became a reality. The date, however, is extremely important. Everything stops, everyone is on holiday, children in particular play a central role in the celebrations as the whole country salutes itself.

For several weeks now, Norwegians have been out raking their lawns, planting pots and flowerbeds, cleaning windows and painting their houses, all in preparation for the 17th May. On this day, they will put on their very best clothes, usually the traditional ‘bunad’, and put out as many Norwegian flags as they can find. Many will take part in a parade of some kind....there are parades for school children, all sorts of organisations, and of course The Russ takes part too. The streets are lined with the most dressed-up population you could imagine, everyone in their finery, waving and cheering the parades as they pass by. The bunads flutter in the breeze, each one, if you happen to know about them, telling the story of where the owner’s family were from in Norway. Nobody wears jeans. Everyone is very smart. And Scotsmen are fully expected to wear kilts.

I find it enormously moving to witness such a universal celebration of national pride. I like the fact that everyone makes an effort. I positively envy the fact that the nation carries out a collective cleaning operation to make everything look its best (and on that note, I can only say that when I last saw the piles of rubbish lying about in some streets in Scotland, I could have wept). There is nothing jingoistic about 17th May, no axes to grind, no political messages being pushed forward...it is a simple, delightful, peaceful, dignified, almost innocent celebration of the nation. The Norwegians have known what it is like to live under occupation – their freedom is very highly prized.

There is no such equivalent in Scotland. The only times I have ever experienced anything similar to this atmosphere at home is the very different setting of a formal Burns Supper. When a Burns Night is at its very best, thought-provoking, inspiring, amusing, inclusive, and not being used as an excuse to score political points, it is vaguely similar to the experience of 17th May in Norway. However, Burns Suppers do not involve the entire population, they are indoors, in winter, and usually relatively sedentary. With St Andrew’s Day also occurring in late November, there is no obvious date for an outdoor national party. None-the-less, it seems odd we have no way of expressing our national pride in public and all together. One can only speculate as to just what sort of effect this has politically.

So, while I think about this, there will be no new posts until after 17th May. But don’t leave altogether...come back and tell me how you spent 17th May and what it meant to you. I shall be in packing mode as we prepare to move, but I still have a few more subjects to cover, so don’t go away.

Happy 17th May!

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - FORMING COALITION GOVERNMENTS

2010-05-12T15:50:00.001+02:00

Buckingham Palace. Imagine the scene.

‘Good morning, Mr Cameron. Simply thrilled to meet you.’

'Good morning, Ma’am. The honour is most certainly mine.’

‘Do have a seat. There are 5 thousand 4 hundred and 33 to choose from, you know, throughout the building but we just keep a couple of dozen in here. Nice though, don’t you think...the beige with the gold? I’ll sit just here and we shall be quite alone...apart from the corgis of course. They always enjoy my chats with the PMs. May I call you David?’

‘Of course Ma’am. I’d be delighted. May I....no, perhaps not.’

‘So, new job, I hear. Congratulations. And a rainbow to greet you and your wife as you enter Number 10. I expect the gentlemen of the press were frightfully pleased. Well, you must be exhausted after such an eventful few days. Still, here we are, all ready to take office. Quite a tall order, but I’m absolutely sure you’ll keep your nose firmly pinned to the grindstone throughout.’

‘Absolutely, Ma’am.’

‘Splendid. Now the last time I met you in the flesh, you were dressed as a rabbit. Do you remember? I believe it was 35 years ago, school show, ‘Toad of Toad Hall’. You were splendid then and I expect the same kind of sparkling performance in your new role.’

‘Thank you Ma’am. I flattered you can recall such an event.’

‘Ah well David, I remember most things. I’ve been here since 1953, you know, so in that time I’ve met a total of twelve different Prime Ministers, starting with Winston, of course.’

‘That is a most humbling thought, Ma’am.’

‘It’s all been very interesting, I can tell you. So, let me put you at ease. Firstly, you know that it has always been the case One meets with the PM every week. I’d like you to know these meetings are entirely private, and nothing you say will go beyond the walls of this room. I know what you’re thinking...if only corgis could speak, what? Luckily, they have always proved endlessly faithful to One.’

‘They are charming Ma’am. And perfectly behaved. Naturally.’

‘Oh, you’re a dog man. Splendid. Now, I’ve only just finished seeing Gordon, you know. It is of course my duty to thank him for doing his duty before I can ask you the big question.’

‘Yes, Ma’am, of course.’

‘Gordon was perfectly charming, as ever. We have got to know each other jolly well during the last three years, and I must say, it’s not always been plain sailing. A son of the manse of course, and as dour a Scotsman as ever One is likely to meet....which is just the way a Scot is supposed to be. As you know, I’m rather keen on ‘things Scottish’. Now, I must ask you....with a name like Cameron, I assume you also have a spot of Scot’s blood wheeching through your veins?’

‘Yes indeed, Ma’am. Funnily enough, Gordon and I are both descended from Scottish Victorian farmers.’

‘How lovely. Well, with all this multi-culturalism going on, it’s quite clear we are all Jock Tamson’s Bairns after all. Now, as I say, the son of the manse did rather inherit a poisoned chalice, but Gordon being Gordon, he stuck to it, dutifully carrying out the demands of office as best he could. I should remind you that I have yet to meet a PM who hasn’t made a mistake...not that I’m counting, you understand, but One can’t help remembering little details here and there.’

Gulp. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘Now, I had a quick world with King Harald of Norway recently, and he tells me these coalition governments can work jolly well...so I don’t want you to be alarmed at the idea of working with those with whom you may not see eye to eye. King Harald tells me, in Europe, the average time it takes for a new Government to form a coalition is 40 days...that’s the average time. 40 days in the Wilderness seems appropriately biblical, doesn’t it? However, I’m quite pleased you’ve somehow managed to come to an agreement after just 5 days of chit-chat.’

‘Yes Ma’am, indeed we have.’

‘And do you think your arrangement will stick? Are you a bit of a team player as well as a leader?’

‘I believe so, Ma’am, yes.’

‘In that case, it’s time for the big question. Will you, in your new capacity as Prime Minister, form the next Government of the United Kingdom?’

‘I will Ma’am. It will be an honour and a privilege.’

The Queen stood up, followed by all the corgis and Mr Cameron.

‘Splendid. I look forward to our little chats,’ said the Queen. And as she was leaving the room, she gently turned around in the doorway and looked her new Prime Minister straight in the eye.

‘David, I’m depending on you.’

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - COUNTING BIKES

2010-05-11T12:28:00.001+02:00

Due to reasons geological, mathematical and choral, my maternal duties of the morning required me to drive for 45 minutes through rush hour traffic between 7.40 and 8.25am. I never normally do this, so it was a revelation.

During the very slow journey, I was so bored I started to count the number of cyclists who were whizzing past my car at a pleasing speed, despite the fast, wet sleet, interspersed with painful hail, that was being fired into their faces by the remarkably inclement weather. I drove approximately 12 kilometres in a circle, and during that time I counted no fewer than 146 cyclists. (Yes, I know I am a total anorak, but have you noticed me ever asking how YOU get YOUR kicks?)

Since our traffic jam was going nowhere fast, I could well understand their chosen mode of transport. In fact, despite the vile weather, I felt a twang of envy. There they all were, helmeted, hatted, gloved, waterproofed and travelling at speed in the lovely 2 metre wide cycle path that is the norm beside any road in Norway. I would love to know how many cars are not required to drive in the morning thanks to the splendidly organised system of cycle paths this country has....of 146 cyclists, I can only guess that at least 100 cars did not have to go out this morning.

More to the point, at least three-quarters of these cyclists were children, some of whom, with their Barbie and Batman cycle helmets, were clearly at the younger end of the school age. None of them appeared to object to the perfectly beastly weather conditions of the morning....they all had the right clothes, as always, including waterproof covers for their school bags. Several enhanced the look with a Norwegian flag fluttering from their backpacks....must be some big day coming up soon, I guess. It was all very carefully thought out to enable maximum comfort, speed, convenience and above all, safety. There are some places in Norway where barriers come down over the roads during the rush hour to prevent cars from using back streets in residential areas...thus making it far safer for children to walk or cycle to school.

It is a delight to see. I am, however, saddened that such a scenario will not be possible when we return home to Scotland. Our offspring will be living approximately 1 mile from the school, and because I am a mean mother, they will be required to walk across three fields, one of which is full of horses and mud, in order to reach school. I would love them to be able to cycle, but there is no cycle path, and the roads are so dangerous I wouldn’t even cycle on them myself.

I cannot express how irritating this is. We Scots are not unwilling to cycle...we would love to be able to do so far more than we do. With the cost of fuel forever spiralling upwards, it would be a useful solution. Scots, like Olympian Gold Medallist Chris Hoy for example, are pretty good at cycling. We have bicycles, we like to keep fit, and we are not scared of bad weather. But we sure as heck ARE scared of the traffic. There have been some truly appalling and tragic cycling incidents in Scotland, often involving the most experienced of cyclists. I find it heart-breaking.

If you want to take your bike on holiday in Scotland, you would be well-advised to do so. There are some fabulous cycle routes around the country, with unbeatable scenery and varied, at times challenging, routes. But I am talking about every-day cycling...to school, to work, to the shops. Our built-up areas are not necessarily conducive to cycling, particularly for children. As a means of alternative transport, cycling has certainly been on the agenda of the Scottish Government. Without boring you with too many facts and figures, the Government know cycling is good for our health and the environment, and there is funding directed towards cutting carbon emissions. However, often this funding is directed towards individual local authorities and is not specific to cycling. This means funds can be siphoned off towards other worthy projects, but the results, as far as cycling is concerned, can be patchy.

But there is hope. Sustrans, for example, is an organisation that has helped to build up the National Cycle Network, a 12,000 mile system of traffic-free paths and routes across the UK. Celebrating its 15th anniversary this year, the Network carries over 1 million ‘walk or cycle’ journeys every day.

People in Scotland know how to cycle, and are yearning to do so on a daily basis. But safety is the main barrier. I really believe we Scots ache to see a cycle path beside every road in the land. Until there is more provision for cycling, you are not going to persuade us all to leave the car at home and ‘get on our bikes’. Funnily enough, that’s what we’re itching to do.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - THE LONGEST WORD

2010-05-10T12:05:00.000+02:00

It is the time of year for one of my favourite words in Norwegian. It also happens to be the longest word in Norwegian. Put your reading specs on.

Konfirmasjonsforberesdelseundervisningsplanlegsingstime.

I am now officially cross-eyed from trying to check the spelling on that. And guess what, the ‘spell-check’ doesn’t agree with me. But I’m right.

It means, as hundreds of you will know, ‘confirmation preparation teaching planning hour.’

I have been reminded of this wonderful word by the smartly turned out people I kept spotting over the weekend...all dolled up in their ‘bunads’ (traditional Norwegian outfits) and off to celebrate with friends and family. Church bells have been ringing, flags have fluttered in the freezing wind, people have gathered at church and then elsewhere for formal meals of a celebratory nature.

It’s this time of year that many a teenager, usually the ones slighter younger than those involved in The Russ, is confirmed.....most likely into the Church of Norway, but by no means exclusively. Those being confirmed are required to attend classes before-hand. It is a rather specific set of circumstances that has led to the construction of this long, long word...along with the Norwegian habit of adding bits of words together in an ambitiously lengthy stream which, for some reason, we English speakers find fantastically witty and amusing, (but then again, British people are renowned for making everything into a joke).

As all these confirmations take place, if you didn’t happen to know which century you were in, there are moments when you could be witnessing something from hundreds of years ago....until you spot the glimmering cars in the car park outside the churches, or the bunad-clad maiden texting on her mobile in the porch. Any visitor to Norway will be struck by the churches here, of which there are over 1,600 throughout the nation. These buildings tell the story of Norway’s thousand year history of Christianity, and represent a long thread of memory that takes those who care to think about it right back to the Viking times. And, as we head towards Norway’s National Day next week, the season is awash with history, tradition, and celebration. It all seems very joyful and peaceful.

By way of contrast, every time I listen to the news from the UK part of me thinks why on earth are we going back to a country that currently has no obvious government, and where the financial turmoil both domestically and on a global scale appears to be spiralling out of control? After our UK election, some wag at home remarked, ‘the People have spoken. The only trouble is, nobody has any idea what they said.’

Oh well, time to go home, almost. And as I look at the bunads, the beautiful churches here, the local people dressing up and celebrating, I realise that these traditions are not my traditions....I am not Norwegian, I am not married to a Norwegian, my role as an active citizen is in Scotland, not necessarily here. So soon it will be time to go home and contribute to my own nation. I know that not every expat feels like this, so I’ll just have to blame it on my Presbyterian/Calvinist mindset, a trait that is buried very deep within.

I’m sure there must be some kind of extremely long word for that. Know any?

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - CRIME FICTION

2010-05-07T20:35:00.001+02:00

The sun is shining here, it’s Friday night and a bottle of something nice is gently chilling in the fridge. Are you off to a hytte for the weekend? Have you sorted out your reading pile, ready to have your mind dragged away from all things work and election related?

I have a big heap of Scandinavian thrillers. It’s thrilling. And very Scandinavian. I have a fair collection now, and I’m not going to give this lot away...they’re staying on my permanent book shelf, the shelf I resort to when in need of literary escapism in the form of a gruesome murder set in a dark, cold, northern place.

I have been wondering why the Scandinavians seem to be excelling at this particular literary genre right now. You will know of, and probably have read Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy of which ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ is the first book. You may also have read one or two, or all, of Henning Mankell’s crime novels built around the detective Kurt Wallander....if not, you may have seen the Swedish TV version or the BBC version with Kenneth Branagh. Frankly, I’ve been lapping up the whole lot...the books, the films, the TV series. I know they are hopelessly popular, but they’re the best ‘fiction’ reads I’ve encountered for ages.

These two are of course Swedish. I know I’m across the border in Norway, but the mood is similar.....the descriptions of landscape, the names of shops, buildings, products, weather, the manner and habits of the characters. When the brooding Mikael Blomkvist sits down outside a hytte to contemplate the world while eating rye bread and pickled herring, I know what he’s up to....or when Wallander walks along a beach in order to organise his thoughts, I can see why.

And now, I’ve discovered the equally gripping writing of Norwegian author Jo Nesbo. I’m in the middle of ‘The Devil’s Star’ , a scary crime thriller set in Oslo....once again, the joy of knowing that city even just a little, of being able to pronounce street names, imagine the architecture, the views, almost taste the food, is terrifically entertaining.

But there’s more to these authors than being able to relate to the setting. Henrick Ibsen was a great one for analysing the Scandinavian psyche, and these authors seem to be following in that tradition. It just so happens that one can interpret that psyche as being dark, brooding, often withdrawn, where people mask their feelings, and are slow to express their inner-most thoughts. It works perfectly in the context of crime fiction.

The Larsson phenomenon is astounding. To date, the Millennium trilogy has sold well over 27 million copies in over 40 countries, and sales are continuing to rise due to the popularity of the film. A crime thriller is never meant to be a comfortable read, but Larsson’s writing is distinctly uncomfortable. There are long, complex passages concerning business, finance, corruption, Nazi sympathisers, and brutal, horrifying violence against women in particular, some of which is almost impossible to stomach. Some of his characters are so outlandish they are verging on the preposterous....multi-millionaires ensconced on private islands, and a deranged, degenerate waif with a genius for computer hacking....really, you couldn’t make it up, and reviewers have been critical of much of this as being too far-fetched. Funny...they don’t dare say that about Dickens’ Fagan or Miss Haversham? I just happen to think Larsson’s ‘Lisbeth Salander’ is one of the most inspired female characters in recent fiction....don’t care what the academics think.

Larsson knew his stuff. He knew the sordid underbelly of his country in a manner that only the best and bravest of journalists ever bother with, he was prepared to take risks in pursuing and exposing wrong-doers, and his grasp of the seedy side of his outwardly perfect country shines through in his writing. It just is, phenomenally, gripping. The fact that Larsson suffered a fatal heart attack aged 50, just as his novels had become a success in Sweden and were being edited and translated into other languages, is enormously sad. (His death was the start of a real-life saga that almost defies belief....I don’t have room to explain it all here.)

As the sunshine sparkles off the sea beside me, I can’t help but feel surely no Scandinavian crime would ever take place in such a paradise. It’s just too lovely right now. And of course, too perfect. After all, those of us who come from other nations are constantly told of the Utopia that is Scandinavia, where everyone is beautiful, healthy and wealthy, well-educated, generously provided for, and where the quality of life is second to none. To be honest, it’s a relief to find that Scandinavians are normal after all....they are just like the rest of us...they have dodgy neighbourhoods, crime, angst, drunkenness, and unsavoury inhabitants too...and they pay much higher taxes. I wonder if all that is part of the intrigue. Is there even an element of schadenfreude?

On those long, dark, winter nights, when people close their doors to the cold and to each other, it is easy to imagine ample opportunity for solitary brooding....while winter can be beautiful in Norway, it is also the perfect setting for something nasty, if you care to think about it. And even if you’ve never visited a Scandinavian country in your life, somehow they offer a most appropriate atmosphere for the darker side of our imagination to take flight. Enjoy.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - ENJOYING DEMOCRACY

2010-05-06T19:30:00.001+02:00

So, it’s Election Day in Britain. Brits are sweating over a hot ballot paper. And, it's not a straight-forward choice. One of this morning’s cartoons depicts a bloke in a polling booth staring at the ceiling while an official remarks, ‘You do know we close at 10pm?’ Such are the delights of the democratic process.

On the other hand, if you are reading this in the morning, we may well know the name of our new Prime Minister. Naturally, we in Britian enjoy the blessings of democracy, as does Norway nowadays. However, it’s still been quite a fight, although thankfully, it didn’t reach actual fisty-cuffs. It's such a relief that nobody has to become a Viking warrior in order to rule a country these days. That’s what used to happen here, way back. Leaders had to be proper Vikings. But little did one proper Viking ruler realise that by falling in love he'd end up unifying a whole nation.

Many centuries ago, Norway was divided into several small realms over which various Viking Chiefs wielded their not inconsiderable power by sheer brute force and showing their great big Viking teeth. One of these chiefs was known as King Harald Fairhair, on account of his abundant blonde locks, of which he was apparently enormously proud. However, his vanity rather got in the way when he fell in love with an extraordinarily beautiful young maiden from Bergen named Gyda. Harald was instantly smitten, and sent a message to the lovely Gyda requesting her fair hand in marriage. He assumed young Gyda would be thrilled at the prospect of getting hitched to such a handsome, abundantly-tressed, blonde chief. Foolish boy...didn’t he realise life is never like it is in the films?

‘Pah,’ cried Gyda. ‘Who does he think he is? Honestly, blondes think they have it all. Seriously, I sometimes think they are a different species. If he thinks I’m going to marry some jumped-up squirt with such a poxy wee kingdom his size just ‘cause he’s got blonde hair, he’s got another think coming.’ She sharpened up the tone of her reply a little further by adding she wouldn’t even contemplate marrying anyone unless they were the Sovereign of a whole nation.

Nothing like setting your sites high, I guess, but it’s just as well we’re not all that fussy. See, I told you ages ago that Norwegian women are strong.

Hearing this, Harald made a vow. Being him, and being a man, it involved his hair. He vowed never to wash or comb his hair again until he had conquered the whole of Norway.

He embarked on a campaign that lasted a full six years. He piled through all the realms conquering each one with startling efficiency, and ended up having a frightful time at the Battle at Hafrsfjord in the year 872. That was the last battle. Needless to say he won... ‘job done’. Norway was unified, Harald became the first King of Norway, and the fickey young Gyda had to submit. I am pleased to relate, he combed his hair, went for a cut and blow-dry, they married, had five children, and enjoyed a long and happy marriage until he died at the age of 83. Obviously Gyda ‘wore the trousers’ but what is it they say about a successful man?

It’s an odd fact, but some Norwegians don’t consider the area around Stavanger as ‘proper’ Norway...too flat, too warm, too southern, not enough snow, funny accent, whatever. This attitude is of course out-dated by 1,138 years. Things have moved on, Norway is one nation, and the site of that unification was right here outside Stavanger. The Three Swords Monument at Hafrsfjord marks the spot. Each sword stands for a different part of the country, South, East and West. I asked a local what happened to North but he waved his hand dismissively and remarked, ‘oh don’t be so idiotic....nobody was interested in the north back then.’

Well, as election day draws to a close and as I await a night of fevered TV viewing to find out who our new PM might be, I hope you can appreciate being able to comb your hair without having to go to all the bother of unifying a nation.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - THE RUSS

2010-05-05T16:53:00.000+02:00

They say ‘youth is wasted on the young’. Hm. Not so sure. Would I really want to be a teenager all over again? Yuk, nei takk.

Look at them, these smiling, happy young girls, all dolled up for ‘The Russ’. Many of you know what The Russ is already, but since I’m rather a fan of the whole concept, let me explain.

Throughout Norway, and around this time of year, those who are finishing High School put on a very special pair of trousers. These are dungarees, constructed of a hard-wearing, tough material as they are required to withstand everyday wearage for several weeks without a wash. The youth inside them has planned the decoration of these trousers in considerable detail, and possibly for years beforehand. All sorts of mothers, grannies, seamstresses, artists and others are drafted in to perfect the wondrous individuality of each person’s breeks. They look utterly splendid, and as a Scot, I find I’m a wee bit cross I never had the opportunity to wear such glorious togs as part of my ‘coming of age.’

Once correctly attired, the youth of Norway are ready for several weeks of partying. Bizarrely there are often some exams still to be sat during this time, but I suppose a sense of personal responsibility is expected by this age. Meanwhile, The Russ continues in a celebratory mood by permitting several liberties. Society allows, nay, expects, misdemeanours. For example, if you are in The Russ you are allowed to make a terrific racket almost anywhere and almost at any time of the day or night. You are supposed to be a bit naughty, to explore your wild side, to indulge in spray-painting with (meant to be washable) paint, sleep in trees, re-direct traffic, play tricks on your superiors, throw yourself and your friends into the sea, practise inappropriate nudity .....stop me now, I don’t want to give them any more ideas.

Then there are the gatherings, several of which are vast outdoor events to which thousands of Russ travel in a series of old vans, specially adapted for the purpose. The vans, like the trousers, are vibrantly decorated and declare the names of the occupants inside. It’s all very jolly, although I can’t help the maternal hairs on the back of my neck from standing on end when I see a van of gorgeous young things with ‘Pussy Wagon’ emblazoned on the bonnet.

I came across a group of Russ taking some dead fish for a walk through town on pieces of string. They were all being engagingly cheeky, but I find it strangely refreshing. For once, these young people are at ease, fooling about, and expressing themselves in an enviably relaxed fashion. I found myself thinking how important it is that they should be doing such ridiculous things...after all, whatever came next, national service, more college, university...it was all quite serious. It was lovely to see them all enjoying a ‘last hurrah’ before becoming sensible adults. The whole thing culminates on 17th May, Norway’s National Day, when The Russ has its own parade, a very public celebration of youthful achievement.

There are those who find the whole Russ thing a real nuisance, and of course it does get out of hand from time to time. But I find myself wishing we had a similar tradition in Scotland. When our young people finish school, there might be one day of hilarity and then that’s it...goodbye, good luck and get on with your life. Somehow The Russ is such a public marking of achievement, such an indulgent celebration of young people on the threshold of their adult life, a momentary doffing of society’s hat towards the young that I can only think it is a very good thing. It’s as though society is saying ‘well done but remember to make the most of your talents.’ There is no similar, universal celebration of our young people and their achievements in Scotland.

If you are suffering the tricks and japes of The Russ right now, if you’ve had your bins removed, a banana up your exhaust, or your wall covered in graffiti, or if you are the parent of some ‘Russ’ party animal, you may think I’m romanticising the situation. But as an outsider looking at Norway, I really like The Russ, and I rather envy its spirit. It seems to represent a rare opportunity for society to express its hopes for, and faith in, young people...they are, after all, the future. It’s as though somebody is looking down on the young as they move from school to the next stage in life, and reminding them of that JFK quote: ‘ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.’

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - UNDERSTANDING OIL

2010-05-04T20:31:00.002+02:00

This morning I was so annoyed, I threw an egg at the wireless.

As you may have gathered, I am a great big fan of the extremely famous British Broadcasting Corporation, but when I hear guff coming out of the radio about the oil industry, I can’t help but throw something.

This is why. Buried between UK election fever, there’s a great big nasty story about the oil industry nightmare going on in the Gulf of Mexico. I often listen to a radio dude who comments each morning on business and finance. Today he was talking to a couple of analysts about oil in the light of the current disaster. He was pressing them on various issues, but especially on the ethical and environmental policies of the oil industry. Fair enough, you might think....events in the Gulf of Mexico are tragic, frightening and very worrying. But what made me so angry was that none of them, interviewer and interviewees, appeared to have any idea how the oil industry actually works.

Since we live in the Oil Age, I would like to know why the general population in the UK, including most of the media, have no real clue about oil. I know this is not the case in Norway. Oil and natural gas have endowed Norway with unprecedented economic freedom, with the sector accounting for almost 20 % of the country’s wealth creation. Much of this wealth is building up Norway’s famous Oil Fund. Most Norwegians have a very clear idea of what the industry is and does, and thus they take a genuine interest in it. In Britain, and even in Scotland where the industry is based, we really need to wise up. For a British journalist to even bother to ask if a major oil company is ethical, both from a moral and an environmental perspective, seems almost archaic and wildly out of touch. And frankly, in light of the manner in which the City and certain bankers have been behaving of late, it’s a bit rich. I'm happy to report that many an oil person has told me if they behaved the way certain bankers have, they wouldn't last a minute.

Do I sound as though I have a bee in my bonnet? Good. Somebody has to...it seems absurd for the public to be so ignorant about something so fundamental to everyday life. I daresay the UK public’s suspicion of oil is a hang-over from the old days, when the industry was perceived as being a Get-Rich-Quick wheeze for greedy, planet-destroying, uncaring capitalists. That may have been a fair assessment decades ago, but not now. Nowadays, can you name an industry in Europe that takes its safety culture and its environmental obligations more seriously than oil? It may not be perfect, and it is right to keep asking questions, but to ignore those issues, to not have those concerns at the top of the agenda, is just bad business.

I wonder how many rigs and platforms are drilling for oil at any one time around the world. Are we into the thousands? We all know extracting oil is one of the most complex and dangerous procedures there is....so of course it is vital that every safety measure is adhered to and every effort is made to avoid complacency. Mistakes cost lives as well as environmental disaster, and it is absolutely not in the interest of an oil company to become complacent.

When something like this happens, it spooks every oil man I know.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - THE MOOD OF THE NATION

2010-05-03T12:42:00.001+02:00

Now pay attention. Be nice to us Brits. We’ve got work to do, decisions to make, people to vote for...go gently on us this week.

Right now, if you are British you will be bombarded by a mood of election fever. Unless, that is, you are in Outer Space with no communications whatsoever back to old Blighty. This is the week, chaps and chapesses, when we all have to wrestle with our souls and vote. That long-awaited election is fast approaching and our leaders are repeating words like ‘difference’ and ‘change’ every three seconds. The televised Leaders’ Debates, new to us in the UK, have spiced things up no end, speculation is rife, and Mr Cynical Voter, what with his ability to comment on social networking sites this time around, is having a blast. There’s nothing like a juicy old election in the UK to get us all grumbling and moaning, hurling insults and even the odd tomato, and generally harping on about what annoys us most.

Of course, it turns out that ‘what annoys us most’ is several things...not just the one. And quite a few of them are the same things that are currently annoying the Norwegians.

Immigration is a huge issue, with 1 million immigrants arrived in the UK since the last election in 2005...now, however, the rate of immigration is slowing down, but the issue remains a crucial concern for many. Then there’s Afghanistan, where the UK currently has over 10,000 men and women in one of the most dangerous areas of that country. Unemployment is rife, and particularly amongst young people. UK manufacturing appears to be suffering from a massive sell-off to foreign buyers, if not disappearing completely. Our precious National Health Service, social services and education systems appear to be straining at the seams. Things have not been easy.

But the over-riding concern amongst all of this is something else. The issue that is seriously alarming the electorate, the real biggie that people are genuinely afraid of, the subject everyone suspects no politician will be utterly truthful about because the cure is too painful, is THE ECONOMY and in particular, the eye-watering size of the UK National Debt.

This National Debt is growing violently...it is well over £900,000 billion at the moment, and is forecast to soar to £1.1 trillion by 2011. As it grows, it makes life more uncomfortable for us now, and represents a future millstone around the necks of our children. Global recession has been extremely painful for the UK. Everyone knows someone who has lost their job, often as a result of the banks not lending money to perfectly respectable businesses with full order books and a skilful and dedicated staff. Countless households in Britain have had to make drastic cuts to make ends meet, while at the same time taking pay-cuts to ensure they have a job at all. So when Jo Public hears about the over-inflated salaries and out-of-all-proportion bonuses paid out to certain top bankers, it ‘sticks in the craw’ like nothing on earth.

It’s very hard to understand how we reached such a state. The gap between the highest and the lowest UK salary is larger than it has ever been. It has been proved over and over again that the larger this gap is, the more social unrest is likely to occur. I hear that this gap is widening in Norway too, but it seems the Norwegians have a long, long way to go to catch up with us Brits.

There is a tradition in this country of ‘everyone being equal’. Naturally, this is almost impossible to achieve, and as always, some are ‘more equal’ than others. But in the 1960’s the Norwegian poet Aksel Sandemose voiced this tradition in his writings. His work lived on as the Jante Law, a rule which embodies an anti-elitist principle. It states, ‘Do not believe you are better than anybody else.’

Now there have been two sides to this. On the surface it sounds marvellous and very fair-minded, but over the decades it was suspected of keeping development back, of restraining brilliant ideas and achievements, of hindering growth and stifling talent. However, Norway realised the problem with Jante Law in the mid 1980s and there was a shift in the balance of how to orientate the young. So nowadays, while everyone is nurtured intellectually and physically, talent is encouraged to reach its full potential. The idea of everyone being equal persists, but if you are inclined, you are given every opportunity to excel.

But there’s another difference over here. If I was very nosey, I could pry into other people’s business to an amazing extent. Everyone’s salary is a matter of public knowledge in Norway...I can choose anyone in our street, any colleague, any friend, and simply by typing their name into the Internet, I can discover their salary and tax liability. Imagine that in the UK?

Now recently, I had an argument about what this did for a society...does this level of transparency mean that the salary gap is less likely to widen at the rate it has in the UK, and therefore the ludicrously over-inflated salaries and tax-avoiding habits of the super-rich would not be so common, leaving the rest of us less disgruntled......OR, does it mean that employees in Norway become jealous, unsettled, and de-motivated more readily?

Discuss.

And while doing so, be gentle towards any Brits you may happen to meet this week. They’re trying to make a decision.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - CLIMBING PREIKESTOLEN

2010-04-30T22:42:00.000+02:00

It’s the weekend, so we need an absolutely MASSIVE rock.

If you have been with us from the start, you will know that Norwegian-Rock-Based-Sea-Gazing is one of the most popular pastimes and I suspect may become a national sport before too long. At first, unless you are Norwegian, you might wonder ‘what’s with the rocks?’ But if you have seen, heard of, or stood upon Preikestolen, you will see the wisdom of it all.

A short trip from Stavanger there perches one of the most extraordinary rocks in the world. Preikestolen is a huge flat-topped lump of granite which hangs over the side of Lysefjorden, a full six hundred metres above the sparkling water below. The name means ‘Pulpit Rock’, apparently because from the fjord below the overhanging rock resembles a pulpit. However, from way down on the water, the thing is so high up one needs binoculars to get the idea. If anyone was going to preach from that particular pulpit, it would have to be Odin himself since a human looks no more than a miniscule speck when standing on that thing.

This mighty rock is one of the great sights of Norway. Climbers, walkers, and tourists in general can reach the top of Preikestolen without much difficulty....it’s a decent day trip, perhaps a two hour hike from the car park to the top, an undulating walk which involves everything from flattish bits to almost vertical boulder-climbing in parts. It’s estimated that each year over 100,000 people venture up here, and we have managed with everything from 3 year olds to 79 year olds. If you’re ever found yourself in this part of Norway and you didn’t climb Preikestolen, you’d kick yourself.

I love the fact the Norwegians have not shied away from allowing people to go up there. It is astonishingly dangerous, if you don’t pay attention. The authorities could have written a notice saying ‘Closed’. Or, they could have put a railing around the edge, endless off-putting warning notices, or, horror of horrors, allowed the once-talked-of cable-car to bring people up there to take their happy-snappies before descending again. If any of this had come about, the richness of conquering Preikestolen would be completely lost. The place must defy every Health and Safety rule in the book, but in doing so, it teaches us more about the world than any set of rules could ever do.

The flat top is the size of a football field, but with the added adrenaline-loaded thrill of a killer drop off the front end. The whole experience of standing up there is made even more edgy by the vast, menacing crack that has formed right across the rock’s surface, parallel with the cliff edge. Our geological friends heartily remark that one day this crack will widen and the rock will drop off completely, causing a huge tidal wave in the fjord below. While this may well occur eventually, we are told it won’t be for several hundred years or so. Probably. I’m clinging to the legend that goes with the crack...it is said that if seven brothers marry seven sisters in Lysefjorden, the rock will then split and fall. Don’t do it, guys.

We are fortunate in that none of us suffer from vertigo. However, an irrational fear of heights is quite different from the logical fear of falling off something that is very high up. If you fall off Preikestolen, that’s it, and sadly, it has happened many times in the past. None-the-less, in the warmer months, the place is hoaching with visitors, many of whom dangle their legs off the side while nonchalantly eating a prawn sandwich as though they were in the works canteen.

Frankly, I feel that’s a bit too casual. It’s the sort of place where it’s not cool to be cool. To look over the edge of Preikestolen is one of life’s great experiences, a place where, for once, the word ‘awesome’ has genuine meaning and perfect application. It’s as though nature itself was giving us a lesson, which is perhaps the real reason it is named Pulpit Rock. Both horrifying and life-affirming at the same time, to look over that rock edge is a potent reminder of how small, vulnerable and insignificant we human beings are in the great scheme of things.

Oh, and the view is, needless to say, world-class.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - PARKING THE CAR

2010-04-29T19:20:00.001+02:00

Just for the record, the picture for today is taken from a Norwegian supermarket car park.

Last week, the extremely famous British Broadcasting Corporation enlivened their news bulletin with an ‘and finally’ that only amused half of the listening population. As you will know, an ‘and finally’ is a short, cute, punchy little number situated at the end of a news bulletin to keep the listener amused, awake and ready to tune in next time for a further witticism. .

‘In China,’ said the male news-reader, ‘car park designers have been planning extra-wide spaces for female drivers, the reason being that it is thought women have less spatial awareness than men.’ WHAT? Oh, ha, ha, ha-dee-ha. I couldn’t believe my ears. Firstly, it’s not funny, secondly it’s not true, and thirdly, I’ve seen those spaces before and it wasn’t China that first came up with the idea.

I was recently in a Norwegian underground car park seeking a space when I saw a nice big one. I swept into it and read a notice attached to the wall in front of my windscreen. ‘Kvinner Parkering’, it said.

Those of you in the North East of Scotland fortunate enough to have a grasp of Doric will immediately understand that this means ‘Women’s Parking.’ I sat there, perplexed. Just what in the world was the logic behind that? I stepped out of the vehicle and conducted a quick survey. It seemed that the ‘Kvinner Parkering’ spaces were considerably wider than the surrounding spaces. How rude! Did they think we girls were rubbish parkers, or just fat?

Then I felt a pang of alarm...maybe I was meant to be pregnant to park in that space. Oh really...that was a parking conversation I’d rather not have..... I’d just have to risk it. I walked off with a flurry of parking memories sweeping across my mind. I recalled, years ago, while on that road to motherhood, being the size of a house and unable to revolve my hefty frame around with my normal athleticism to its usual degree while in the driver’s seat...that had been in a narrow one-way street in Aberdeen where I had been obliged to park on a daily basis. I managed, perfectly well, what was the problem?

However, since that day in the underground car park, I have been making a note of the thinness of Norwegian parking spaces. They often appear to be less than generous, if not verging on the miserly. The driver is required, at times, to be remarkably adept, gymnastic even, when it comes to exiting the vehicle while in one of these spaces.

If I can possibly help it, I usually try to avoid multi-storey car parks. Can’t stand them, but needs must. I was in town and I needed to park. Remembering that some obliging person had thoughtfully removed the folding canoe off the top of my car, I thought I would risk the multi-storey. I drove in, grabbed a ticket at the barrier and gingerly proceeded up various ramps looking for a nice space. There weren’t many. I drove on and on and joined the queue of hopefuls as we circled the various levels in our quest for a slot.

‘Ah ha!’ I cried at last. ‘A space. That’ll fit the bill.’ But unfortunately, it barely fitted the car. We have a perfectly ordinary-sized car that enables our family plus two guests to travel in relative comfort. That’s it. It’s nothing to write home about.

I glanced into the rear-view mirror to see how many cars were lined up behind me. Seven. All of them urgently seeking their own space and revving to get on with it. I reckoned it would be rude to hold them up by reversing into my space, so I went in nose first, only to find that I didn’t fit. I’d have to do several manoeuvres in and out, back and forth. Visions of docking the QE11 sprang to mind. The man in the car immediately behind me was staring at me, stony faced and glazed over. My palms were sweating. I felt like a trapped animal on display. Come on...I had the whole of the female population to defend here...just park the flaming car.

Suddenly, I was mid-angle into my space when the car’s gear-box succumbed to overwhelming flatulence and let out an almighty, gut-wrenching fart. The noise ricocheted around the car park, echoing like thunder through concrete ramps and alley-ways. It was hideous. I went puce, and wrestled with my gear stick, only to produce more stomach-churning, scraping, squelchy noises from my poor, windbag of an engine. I mouthed in an exaggerated fashion into the mirror in the hope the guy behind could lip-read....‘Sorry...you should have seen what I had for breakfast....plays havoc with your insides.’ I don’t think he got it.

Eventually, because I am a woman and therefore undeterred by a challenge, I managed to conquer the space, and I left the vehicle, my head held high, as though everything was perfectly normal. But I’m telling you...that was a teeny weeny space. Tiny. The thing is...if you are a male driver, and you think Norwegian parking spaces are abnormally thin, I absolutely bet you’re not ever going to admit it.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - DISCOVERING AMERICA

2010-04-28T19:18:00.002+02:00

It’s more or less drummed into us.

‘In fourteen hundred and ninety two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue’

Well, tweak my troll. It turns out he wasn’t the first one to do so. Everyone who lives in Norway knows full well it was the Norwegians who discovered America. Long before Christopher Columbus was even a gleam in his grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s eye, Leiv Eiriksson, who was descended from a family from the Rogaland area of Southern Norway (the bit I’m still sitting in), sailed away from Greenland in the direction of some unknown place.

Leiv’s father , Erik the Red, was a bit of an adventurer himself and has been referred to as the father of Norwegian exploration. Erik was alarmingly keen on slaughter and had been banished from Norway to Iceland for murder (which seems to me to be ‘going some’ in those Viking days). However, he promptly murdered some more people in Iceland too, and found himself shunned by society once again. He sailed off in a huff and discovered a big lump of ice which happened to be an island. He reckoned this might make an excellent place for his new home, but he’d need a few folk to join him (they’d have to be really keen to move, me thinks). So, with embellishment worthy of a dodgy estate-agent, he named his icy new home Greenland.

The business of discovering new countries had been well-established by the time Leiv grew up in Greenland. He heard a tale of Bjarni Herjulfsson who had been trying to sail from Iceland to Greenland in the year 986 when he became spectacularly lost. A saga tells of Bjarni being the first European to see the American continent. Quite why he didn’t bother setting foot on it is not recorded. But at least he remembered to tell his mates back home.It was a strange tale that stuck in Leiv’s young mind.

‘Leiv’, my boy’, said his Dad, Erik the Red, one day. ‘I do wish you had a bit of ambition, a bit of drive. Honestly, you young people nowadays...you just sit about, lapping up the luxuries your hard-working parents have provided, no need to stir yourself from the comfort of your reindeer skin, stuffing your face with dried fish crisps and staring at the wall. It’s enough to drive me to mead. What do I have to do to get you off your bony backside, put your helmet on, act like a proper Viking and explore? Discovery is the family business, you know. And we’ll all be going to the dogs if you don’t move it and discover somewhere half decent.’

Leiv sighed a teenaged sigh. ‘Oh, it’s ok for you, what with your very own Greenland. Why do I have to be born into this dumb family that has to go around finding new stuff? Life sucks. It’s just SO unfair.’ He sloped off and, checking his Dad wasn’t looking, borrowed Bjarni’s boat.

Leiv had finally stirred himself in AD 1000 and, low and behold, found the American continent. Not bad for a day’s work. As a result, there were temporary Norse settlements in ‘Vinland’, the Northern point of Newfoundland. Despite several other Norwegian-based Vikings crossing The Pond, no permanent settlement was established, possibly due to attacks from fearsome Native Americans.

Whatever the reason, if the Norwegian PR machine had been a little more efficient at the time, Christopher Columbus would not have gone down in history as having stolen the show. But between them, Erik and Liev had started a trend....Norway was to produce some of the most epic explorers of all time.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - AXEL'S AMERICAN SOUND

2010-04-27T14:24:00.001+02:00

I was just doing my Doris Day thing at the bus stop. Oh, it is so very easy to embarrass one’s off-spring first thing in the morning...the temptation is way too strong. I was in full Doris mode, and blasting out her version of ‘The Street Where You Live’....quite the best arrangement of that gorgeous song I know, and a good number for getting stuck into the full toe-tapping, hip-swinging, shoe-shuffling joy of a slickly-executed boogie. And it wasn’t just the Doris bits...I did the whole brass section too, with all the ‘Doo-bee-doo-waaaah’s and everything. It was excellent, though I say it myself. That kinda thing wakes a girl up in the morning.

Anyway, Doris, as I hinted, was blessed with one of the best arrangements of ‘The Street Where You Live’, concocted by a guy who happens to be one of my favourite Norwegian Americans. For he it was who helped to manufacture what I will be bold enough to call the ‘American Sound’.

Now I know you’ll say, but what about Copland, Gershwin, Berstein and Sondheim for starters? Absolutely, and of course.....those guys and several others delivered the Full Shalonga. However, there were a few people who were slightly less ‘weel-kent’ but highly significant in the development of that ‘American Sound’. My favourite, and Doris’s arranger for this song, rejoices in the name of Axel Stordahl.

You will realise that anyone named Axel Stordahl has to be Norwegian (it means Mr Big Valley, for those seeking linguistic illumination). Axel was born in 1913 in Staten Island, New York, the son of Norwegian immigrants. He learnt the trumpet and by the 1920’s he was playing in bands. He soon became a band leader, arranger and composer and realized this was where his true talent lay. He was the first guy to listen to the voice and tone of an individual singer, and arrange the song around that voice. His pioneering approach helped to bring about the shift away from the Big Band sound of the 30s to the popular music of the post-war period. He arranged songs for the voices he liked.... Doris Day of course, Peggy Lee, Bing Crosby, Dean Martin and Dinah Shore. But it was his work with Frank Sinatra that was most significant....he helped to define Sinatra’s style, interpretation and execution of the music he performed. Is it possible to think of that ‘American Sound’ without Frank Sinatra? I think not.

In leaving Norway for America, Axel’s parents were part of a long tradition. There are now over 4.5 million Americans of Norwegian descent, as many if not more of them than there are Norwegians still in Norway. This was a mass migration that started in 1825 on a sloop called the ‘Restauration’, sometimes known as the ‘Norwegian Mayflower’. The sloop left from the little harbour just 500 metres from where I’m sitting right now. 52 souls sailed across the Atlantic for 3 months before arriving in New York with 53. Little Annie had been born mid-Atlantic...she was known for the rest of her life as ‘Slooper-Annie’.

It was the start of a long connection between Norway and the United States that has remained important. Initially, people left as a result of religious persecution, but soon the primary reasons were economic. Between 1825 and 1925 over 800,000 Norwegians emigrated to North America, a third of the entire Norwegian population. Over time the majority settled in the Upper Mid West, particularly Minnesota where one can still hear a strong Norwegian inflection in the local accent. With the exception of Ireland, no other single country contributed more to the population of the USA.

I could have picked any number of Norwegian descendants who contributed greatly to what we now think of as American culture....what about Marilyn Monroe, I hear you cry. Well, it’s hard to pick just one, but wherever we come from, whoever we are, wherever we end up, home is after-all, ‘The Street Where You Live’, so the Mighty Axel’s been on my mind.

UNSPEAKABLY NORWEGIAN THING - DELICIOUS DAHL GENES

2010-04-26T14:27:00.002+02:00

I’ve been thinking about genes, particularly Norwegian genes. A miniscule knowledge of Viking history is all one needs to realise that a great many of us Scots have a good dollop of Norwegian genes floating about inside us. As do many of the Irish, the Welsh, the English, the Americans and the Canadians.

But before we go way back in time, and before we head across The Pond, I need to mention one particular family that left Norway in order to settle in the UK. Their contribution, and particularly the contribution of one of their family members, is almost legendary.

If you have a teenaged boy in your house and you are in the habit of watching the extremely famous British Broadcasting Corporation, you will know that Tuesday nights offer half an hour of essential viewing. For it is then that ‘The Delicious Miss Dahl’ is broadcast across the UK, before being beamed elsewhere.

‘The Delicious Miss Dahl’ is apparently the perfect vision of womanhood, according to the teenaged youth I happen to have handy. If ever the ideal female graced the television screen, it is apparently Sophie Dahl, the grand-daughter of the man who, to my mind, is The Delicious Mr Dahl, Roald for short. Sophie is reputed to be rather keen on food, and thus it has been arranged for her to present a cookery programme. So of course, being a curious parent, I was obliged to tune in too, just to check things out.

I did so on the first night of the series, and was confronted with the most Norwegian of Norwegian faces. Funny how this had never struck me before but.... wow....those Norwegian genes came shining through the screen like nothing on earth. Miss Dahl may have lived in England all her life, but she could not look more Norwegian if she put on a bunad (national dress) and started doling out lutefisk. I watched in astonishment as the camera enjoyed her perfection from as many different angles as the kitchen would permit. Even I could quite understand what the teenaged youth was going on about.

I retired to my library and fetched down a book by The Delicious Mr Dahl, one that I knew he had dedicated to a different Sofie, his own Mum. Like everyone else, I’ve been a fan of Mr Dahl from the minute he started to have his books published (some of us are as old as that) but it has only been since living in Norway that I read his two autobiographical books, ‘Boy’ and ‘Going Solo.’

‘Boy’ tells the story of the young Roald, born to Norwegian parents in Wales. He was brought up in England, and spent every summer holiday in Norway where he fished, swam, mucked about in boats, ate ice-cream and wore strange Norwegian sandals, (the ones the ‘BFG’ was to be seen wearing in later years).

The next bit of Roald’s life is written about in ‘Going Solo’, quite the most gripping book I’ve come across for a while. There he was, a young man of 18 working for the Shell Oil Company in Africa, when WW11 broke out and he found himself training to be an RAF pilot with 80 Squadron in the Western Desert. Once trained, he survived a horrific plane crash. He recovered from this and was immediately sent to Greece to fly Hurricanes. As he arrived in Greece he was told that his plane was number 15 of the fleet of 15 Hurricanes. Those, along with 5 Blenheims, represented the entire RAF war machine in Greece at that moment. The Germans, meanwhile, had hundreds of fighters and hundreds of bombers. It was less than ideal. It was a fiasco.

His stories of these days in Greece would make anyone’s hair stand on end. In particular, the description of the Battle of Athens, when, despite being outnumbered ten to one, Dahl and his fellow pilots flew sortie after sortie, ignoring the danger, taking astonishing risks, and braving appalling odds. I can’t possibly tell the story here....Dahl is, after all, the World’s Number One Story-Teller and it’s his story, so you have to read the book. All I can say is, the circumstances and the strength of courage those pilots showed is mind-blowing. The chances of a pilot surviving those battles was slim as slim, so we are extraordinarily fortunate that Dahl lived to tell the tale, in between all his other stories.

In later life, Dahl had a reputation for being rather a fierce man, impatient and often difficult to be around. But I also know he was a dedicated family man, a man who adored children and simply wanted to amuse them. Of course he was bad-tempered from time to time....he was busy. He had a terrific number of books to write, and he had a desperate desire to do them well. He would disappear into the garden and vanish into his yellow-doored-hut, his hytte, where he would sit in his favourite chair, his writing board across his knees, and create some of the best children’s fiction the world has ever known. He may have been grumpy from time to time, but his legacy is one of humour, adventure, style and above all, fun.

‘The Delicious Miss Dahl’ has been hammered by the critics. I do hope Sophie has inherited her grandfather’s courage to go on, despite everything. Clearly these critics don’t have children who have laughed and laughed at Roald Dahl’s books, and are now smouldering quietly at the sight of Dahl’s delicious Norwegian-looking grand-daughter. What do critics know?

If, incidentally, you have a favourite Roald Dahl book, tell me what it is....I haven't read them all yet.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - DRINK TO GET SKINT

2010-04-24T18:53:00.000+02:00

The TA returned home from a 15 hour monster of a day at the coal face, or whatever they call it when you’re drilling a big hole underneath the North Sea.

‘Anything I can do to help? To ease the pain? To lighten the burden? Anything you want?’ I enquired in an attempt at showing wifely concern. He looked at me in a daze, as though having to consider the myriad of temptations on offer was a decision too far.

‘Fancy going down the pub?’ he eventually said.

This, for me at least, is a rare event in Norway, for reasons that will become clear. But it is a great treat, so soon we were wandering through the darkness to our local, where the TA slumped into a chair while I bought the drinks. I purchased one large beer and one glass of wine, nothing else, not even a malformed peanut.

‘170 kroner’ said the barmaid.

I went all John McEnroe. ‘Du kan IKKE be serious.’ She just stared back at me as though I was deranged.

I tried Sean Connery. ‘Shurely shome mishtake!’ But of course it was useless. I knew all along, in my heart of hearts, she was perfectly capable of adding up the cost of two drinks, and she had done so accurately. I’m just not, as I say, used to going to the pub in this country.

Having emptied my wallet completely, I skulked back to our little table, feeling depressed. I didn’t dare mention the cost to the already stressed-out TA. I sat there doing a wee calculation. So if one large beer costs 95 kroner, using the more-or-less current exchange rate of 8.8, that beer costs £10.90. One large beer in a pub here is 0.6 of a litre, whereas a British pint is the equivalent of 0.45 litres. Standard beers here are 0.4 litres.

Then, despite feeling enfeebled by the massive sums I was computing through my brain, I tackled the wine calculation. My small glass of wine was 75 kroner, which would be about £8.50. Blimey...I’d better make sure I relish every sip with hither-to unrivalled fervour.

No wonder I hardly ever go to the pub over here. The cost can ruin the enjoyment. To start with, alcohol is highly taxed. But in addition to that, in order to persuade ‘undesirables’ from coming into the pubs in the first place, the drinking establishments are apt to increase the cost even further. They vie with each other to ensure they don’t have low enough prices to tempt any riff-raff. The ‘undesirable’ elements then go down to the supermarket to buy a few cans of beer (spirits are only sold in a specialist, government controlled shop, where, by-the-by, whisky is £50 a bottle). Provided they arrive before 8pm (because no beer can be sold there after that hour)they will be required to pay about £3.50 for each can....none of your ‘six-pack-two-for-one-weekend-special-offers’ here.

Now in the UK, as we approach an election and everyone is madly discussing the problems of our society, the complex and serious issues surrounding alcohol are evident, even if they are not top of the agenda. The recession has been hitting pubs very hard, so landlords have been struggling, if not closing down completely. They have often tried to survive by driving down prices, hosting ‘Happy Hours’ and other such wheezes to persuade the public, whom we shall call Mr UK Tax Payer in this instance, to keep on boozing.

Meanwhile, the question of how to tackle anti-social behaviour is a serious one. Our city centres can be horrific at times, particularly at weekends or after football matches when the streets are strewn with drinkers who have indulged in ‘several too many’. It is not only disgusting, noisy, and terrifying ....it costs of the police and health services a packet.... an ever-mounting cost which is ultimately shouldered by Mr UK Tax Payer.

To a Scot, Norway’s strict attitude to booze seems positively draconian. But it is clear that price has a very real effect on the amount consumed and the after-effects with which society must cope. Of course there are hardened alcoholics here, but the consumption of alcohol per head of population is far smaller than in the UK. As I sat in Norway drinking a glass of tap water and watched the UK Chancellor Alistair Darling’s recent attempt to increase the levy on cider, (from which the Government has now back-tracked,) it seemed an almost laughably limp attempt at tackling a serious and growing problem. I’d hate cider-makers to go belly-up, so it appeared rather cruel, if not arbitrary, that they were picked upon. But the problem is not going to go away unless someone comes up with a solution.

Naturally nobody wants to see anyone going out of business in the UK...we would all wish publicans, brewers and distillers well despite the ravages of the recession. However, it is worth pointing out that the immense price of alcohol in Norway undoubtedly affects behaviour.

And I can prove that. Several times now I have seen the most well-behaved of Norwegians undergoing a marked psychological change as soon as they step onto an aircraft to go abroad....whatever time of day they start their holiday, you can bet your last kroner they’ll be blotto within minutes of boarding the plane.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - DRIVING ROUNDABOUTS

2010-04-23T12:32:00.001+02:00

Now, I’m approaching this with caution. You simply cannot imagine the number of conversations I have had in this country about roundabouts. The conversations divide into three distinct categories, all of which get people hot under the collar in moments.

1. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe roundabouts are more-or-less new to Americans, so they are quite amazed when they first encounter one. However, they tackle them with aplomb, and very quickly catch on to the rules of how to get round the things. But then the confusion starts because everything they learnt to do at a roundabout is not adhered to by other roundabout users. What the cotton-pickin’ heck is goin’ on, they all holler.

2. Winking. Now I know most people call this ‘indicating’ when in a car, but I wink. Being a Brit, I wink a great deal...always at every junction, and absolutely ALWAYS at a roundabout. You have to...it says so in the Highway Code. I am programmed to wink. It’s in my genes. I think it is not only useful but polite...other people need to know where you are intending to go.

So, I was STARTLED the first time I drove around a roundabout in Norway winking madly, and nobody winked back. Not even the slightest little flash. There was I, winking and flashing, and twinkling away like a gaudy Christmas decoration, and everyone else on there wasn’t even showing the slightest tweak of a side-light. I felt like an absolute show-off, intent upon attracting attention, when all I wanted was to turn right. I went puce with embarrassment. How on earth was I meant to know which way everyone was going? Was I meant to be psychic? Was I meant to be able to guess? Was there some other secret sign that would show which way people were intending to go that nobody had yet mentioned? Perhaps I was meant to catch the eye of every driver and try to guess in which direction his gaze lay, but what with the weather and the light, this method didn’t seem terribly satisfactory. Someone once told me that drivers are, after all, meant to wink at a Norwegian roundabout...it’s just that they often don’t, so I have become quite an accomplished roundabout-directional-guesser. It’s a special sort of Norwegian art form. It's enormously tempting, when someone sails onto the roundabout without winking to yell, 'Hey, Buster...give us a clue? Are you driving that thing or just sitting in it while it goes forward?' I've struggled to prevent myself from doing this.

What’s more, I am now completely used to driving like this, to the point that when our indicators flaked out on the car, nobody was worried. In Scotland I would never have dared leave the house without them, but here, it was the norm to forget to wink. I might try it at home, just to see how many drivers I can get to blast me on their horns...I guarantee it will be every driver on that roundabout because lack of winking is something that makes Brits jump up and down in apoplectic rage. Dare me? Just once?

3. What has been going on at that Telly-tubby Roundabout? Ever since we have lived in Norway, a huge roundabout on the way into Stavanger has been the subject of one of the most long-term road projects I have ever witnessed. It is an eternal scene of dug-up tarmac, temporary lanes and cones. It has been named the Telly-tubby roundabout by a number of BBC viewers as it looks like something out of that particular children’s programme...it is round (obviously...duh) with slopes that would be quite nice to roll down if you didn’t land in the traffic. It has an overhead cycle/walkway and a variety of interesting, artistic, technical and somewhat diverting features. To everyone’s surprise, it does not, despite being a cross-road to several metropolii, including Bergen and Kristiansand, have any more lanes than it had when the project first started out. If anyone would like to explain the logic of this, I’m all ears.

I must add that we Brits have similar road-works frustrations on a daily basis to the point that the digging-up of roads is verging on becoming an election issue...but then again, there are so many irritations that this is fairly low down the list of idiotic and enormous frustrations the UK population is currently facing.

But to return to roundabouts for a moment, I have noticed even within Scotland there are regional variations in roundabout behaviour. If I drove round a Glasgow roundabout at the speed with which I am meant to attack an Aberdeen one (at least according to local custom) I would attract no end of tooting and rude gesturing. In Glasgow, one is almost expected to smile and wave in a friendly manner to everyone else on there, unless of course you are dumb enough not to wink, and then a fight starts.

I guess the moral of all this is that a roundabout should be approached with caution in every city and nation, at least until you have sussed out exactly what is expected of you by the locals.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - ULL, ULL, ULL

2010-04-22T15:42:00.000+02:00

Those of us not born Norwegian tend to think of this country as a land of snow and ice and cold. We just can't help it...that's the general impression. So some people are a wee bitty feart when they are told to come here....just how cold is it going to be? And how do people manage to keep warm? So, naturally enough, when I first arrived, I innocently asked a Norwegian how the Norwegians survive the cold.

‘Ull, ull, ull,’ she said flatly. I quickly thumbed through the dictionary, pages flapping in the freezing wind.

‘Ah, wool, wool, wool,’ I cried.

She began to elaborate. ‘Woollen socks,vital. Woollen underwear, essential. Woollen jumper,of course. Woollen gloves, naturally. Woollen hat, at all times. You will need all of these. Go and buy them immediately.’ I’ve been obeying her ever since.

Now, in an attempt at clarity, let me be just point out, for the sake of our American and Canadian friends, when I say ‘jumper’ I mean ‘sweater’....this curious British term for an everyday garment has already caused no end of confusion amongst the international community here, so I apologize for my pedantry in pointing this out.

So in trying to keep warm, it is no wonder the Norwegians are accomplished knitters. They have a big need for good, warm, woollen clothing. They are particularly fussy about socks....only pure wool socks are any use to anyone contemplating a stroll, ski or climb, the point being that even if the wool becomes wet, it will still keep your tootsies toastie.

This Norwegian practical approach to the wearing of weather-appropriate clothing has quite an effect on one’s wardrobe. I am shocked to discover I no longer own a single stiletto. Gone and my silks and satins, my feathers and frills and fripperies. In their place I have a monstrous heap of fleece, denim, gortex and wool. And you should SEE the jumpers.

I’m sure there is many a Christmas card sporting cheery families round a piano gleefully singing carols, each person decked out in a knitted jumper sprinkled with snow-flakes and prancing reindeer. We could do that. We could take that shot and send that card. It was almost irresistible last year, but I WILLED myself not to succumb. We have so many of those jumpers now, we could easily stage a Yule-tide musical.

But they are enchanting, you see. I challenge anyone to come back from this country without a fabulous Norwegian jumper which will last them for years and years.

As with many things round here, the Vikings started it. When at home, Mr Viking did what Mrs Viking said...she was the one who held the keys of the house, generally ran the place, and did the knitting. It took SO LONG to create a garment from scratch, having had to her your own sheep first, shear it, card the wool, spin it, dye it and then knit it, that clothes were extremely valuable. So from then on, a decent knitted jumper has held the status of a family heirloom, the best ones being handed down through generations.

However, it wasn’t just the jumpers themselves that were handed down. With much of the population living a fairly isolated life, cut off from each other by natural boundaries, the traditions and crafts of rural communities determined what is ‘Norwegian design’ more than anything else. The long winter months meant people had time for a variety of home-based industries, decorating their interiors, making furniture, and creating beautiful clothes. Skills, forms and patterns were handed down from one generation to another, and this love of handicrafts is very much a living tradition even today. Fortunately for me, various companies now design and manufacture Norwegian jumpers, so thank heavens I don’t have to knit my own...I just buy them. The designs are still evolving, but it is true to say there is a particular look to a Norwegian jumper.

One does have to be a SLIGHTLY careful. You can over-do it as far as the prancing reindeer are concerned, and I don’t want to end up looking like that Christmas card. So I’m wondering just how much I will be wearing these things back home in Scotland. But they are so warm, and so decorative, and so well-made, I’m never going to get rid of them. I’m hooked.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - KNITTING

2010-04-21T13:18:00.000+02:00

If you were to create an opera, there are certain subjects that lend themselves easily to the art form. Those two old chestnuts, Love and Death, tend to rule the roost, but every-so-often something wildly original comes along to surprise us all. So when my very excellent friend announced he was producing and directing an opera about knitting, I dropped a stitch.

‘Knitting?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure? Do you even know what knitting is? I can’t remember ever seeing you knit.’

‘One does not have to have lived through the experience one’s self in order to create an opera on the subject,’ he replied, rather tartly, I thought. ‘Puccini felt no need to become Japanese, Beethoven was never a prisoner, Gilbert and Sullivan were not compelled to become pirates.’ I bowed to his superior knowledge on how to create an opera, and waited for the reviews.

Well, not only was the opera a terrific success, but it went on tour....from Britain to Norway. And the link was?.... knitting and fishing.

It turns out, where there is fishing there is also knitting. The two are not mutually exclusive, and there is, of course, knitting where there is no fishing. Surprise, surprise, where there are sheep there is wool and hence, there is knitting. But knitting went particularly well with fishing because being on a boat was a cold, cold business...one needed wool to keep warm. In Scotland, I know the two were even more closely entwined for a rather sombre reason. Different fishing communities invented different knitting patterns, and so if a fisherman were ever lost at sea, his body might be identified at a later date by the knitting pattern on his sweater.

Knitting was always an important skill in both countries in the past. Fishwives were able to knit as they went about their daily business, without even looking, ball of wool in their pocket, their hands always busy ....I’ve tried that while watching the news on telly and all I got was a big fankle.

Nowadays in Scotland, knitting is becoming trendy again, having gone through several decades of being for grannies. Nowadays, one can spot cool chicks on the Clockwork Orange (Glasgow’s underground system) knitting all sorts of gear....clothes, toys, bags, decorations. I once spotted someone with an entire basket of vegetables, all of them hand-knitted using a very straight-forward plain/pearl pattern....quite the thing.

However, I suspect the Norwegians are ahead of us in the knitting game in that it seems to be more common here. While I struggle away with my idiotic selection of needles, I never seem to produce anything that any sensible person might wish to wear. The TA is at a loss as to why I continue to knit, but I think it’s something to do with that old, engrained Presbyterian work ethic....I can’t just sit around and not be doing something. The trouble is, everything I make looks slightly mad, as though intended for some kind of avant-garde art installation. Every garment is extremely large and voluminous, fit only for a giant with a beer-gut. I have to PAY people to wear my creations.

By way of contrast, several Norwegian people I know of a similar vintage to myself are absolute knitting champs. They knock up a pair of two-toned, ribbed socks in the twinkling of an eye, they do nightmarish projects like individually-fingered gloves with intricate, four- colour patterns, they take their knitting to important meetings and manage to concentrate on major decisions while adding fluted edges and complex button-holes to any number of garments. They even knit on the bus...I mean really, you have to be enormously confident to get away with that kind of showing off.

I suspect they all learnt to knit very early on. Back in that ‘Barnehage’, otherwise known as a Kindergarten, they had several years, up until the age of about six, to perfect all kinds of skills, knitting being just one of them. So nowadays, when young Norwegians tell me they can’t knit, I think they are fibbing out of politeness, so as not to wound me.

Anyway, my friend’s knitting opera turned out to be a magnificent success in the UK, and was soon touring a variety of Norwegian coastal towns to rapturous reception. It would appear that if you want an opera to be successful, make sure it concerns something to which your audience can relate strongly.

Happy knitting.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - WE CAN CAN

2010-04-20T11:52:00.000+02:00

The seemingly dull act of opening a can of sardines will never be the same again. It is a task that’s now infused with deep and significant meaning. Which is surprising, I know. It’s not as though a can of sardines is anything to do with glamour. It’s not even expensive. It’s the sort of store cupboard stand-by that hangs around for ages until we forget to organise dinner.

But that was long ago. Now, a can of sardines induces a powerful wave of nostalgia, a kind of fishy longing, a bending of one’s mind towards the sea. You’d be amazed at what a simple biddy-little can of sardines could do to a person once they have lived on the Norwegian coast.

Everyone knows that for a place to thrive, one needs a few tricks up one’s sleeve, a good idea that brings growth and prosperity. Stavanger's periods of growth and prosperity all seem to last about fifty years, with nasty slumps in between. Firstly, there was approximately fifty great years of herring, followed by about fifty years of shipping. After the shipping industry had taken a dive, people were wondering ‘what’s next’ when someone heard about a French bloke who’d decided to put a sardine in a tin.

‘Good plan!’ thought the Norwegians. ‘We can can.’ By 1865 a can of ‘brisling in oil’ was the thrilling, glitzy highlight at an exhibition in Bergen, and by the turn of the century, Norwegian canning of sardines, and other products, was all the rage. By 1900 the herring were no longer plentiful, but from time to time there was a bunch of other stuff in the sea, particularly little toatie-wee toots called sprats, conveniently small for packing into tins. The sky was the limit, and there followed fifty years of super-successful canning.

By the mid 1920s there were almost 200 canning factories in Norway, with at least 60 of them in Stavanger. Over half of the city’s population worked in the canning industry, a larger proportion than work in the oil industry today. Women and children were employed in the factories, and during the height of the season, whole families would work around the clock. They were super fast, and could pack a tin of sardines in 5-6 seconds. Artists designed labels for specific countries and climates, and soon the industry had refined its marketing skills to such an extent that Norwegian sardines were exported around the globe. It was said that if you lined up all the tins of sardines produced in Stavanger in one year, they would stretch right up the Norwegian coast-line, which, as we know, is the longest in Europe. That’s an insane number of tins.

There was a hiccup at one point when a legal case tried to prevent Norway from calling this product ‘sardines’...after all, the raw ingredient didn’t come from Sardinia. Norway was forced to use the term ‘brisling’ although ‘sardine’ was still permitted for exports to America and some parts of the British Empire, (presumably they reckoned these customers would have no idea where Sardinia might be, so the name was of no consequence).

There is no doubt a tinned sardine is a wonderful thing, good for the constitution and ready for any occasion at the drop of a Sou’wester. The great Roald Amundsen himself, realising how useful a tin of sardines could be, took a supply away to help him conquer the South Pole. He packed them into his suitcase in 1910, but forgot to eat them so they returned to Norway unopened. The tin was finally cracked open by some white-coated boffin in a lab in 2005, who declared the contents to be perfectly delicious and tucked into a hearty 95 year old lunch.

By the 1950s canning was in decline. The invention of the freezer rather put the brakes on things, and eventually there were only a few factories operating in the city. Nowadays the canning industry has departed Norwegian shores completely and headed towards Eastern Europe instead.

I was once told ‘there is nothing a Norwegian hasn’t done to a fish’. My mind boggled at the time, a sudden riot of lurid images involving sea-creatures racing through my head, the details of which I will spare you. But having spent hours on end in this country catching, gutting, smoking, poaching, frying, baking, eating, photographing, throwing, drying, drawing, predicting the weather and decorating the house with fish, I couldn’t agree more.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING- THE SMELL OF FISH

2010-04-19T13:38:00.000+02:00

The sense of smell is apparently closely and curiously linked to one’s memory. When we’re talking fish, it may well not be everyone’s favourite idea of how to achieve a sense of nostalgia, but it doesn’t half take you back. The niff and the whiff of fish are linked to so many coastal towns, and Stavanger is no exception. So from now on, whenever I open a jar of pickled herring for a standard Norwegian lunch, as I did today, I will think of Stavanger. Some would describe this as ‘dead fish on cardboard’, but there’s more to this fish than meets the nose.

When children in Stavanger complained of the continual smell of fish around town, they were quickly reminded that ‘the smell of fish is the smell of money.’ If it hadn’t been for fish, the city would never have come about. For hundreds of years, the naturally deep harbour in the centre of Stavanger had provided a meagre living for the small community that grew around it. Once the Domkirke, the Cathedral, was established, the place was set to grow, but it was not necessarily going to flourish. Like everywhere else, the town was dependent upon circumstance and fortune. There were good times and bad, but over the centuries, it was fish that remained critical to the town’s economy.

In the late 18th century, the town’s folk were particularly undernourished and struggling for survival. Disease was rife and a grinding poverty left people with little hope. But towards the turn of the century, a mysterious happening took place. For some unknown reason, the herring arrived in the North Sea, great shoals of flickering silver, to be known forever more as ‘God’s Gift’.

Like the coastal towns and villages of Scotland and the North East of England, the herring, the Silver Darlings, as the Scots called them, offered a real chance of prosperity. Apart from the fishermen, there was work for the town’s folk in gutting, preparing and barrelling the fish. A considerable trade grew out of it, and soon Stavanger had a sizeable fleet of boats trading herring to the Baltic, bringing back linen, corn and other products. In Stavanger, the harbour could be jammed with the number of boats involved. As trade spread, larger ships were built, links extended further and further afield, people grew rich, wealthy merchants built large houses and the city thrived.

But just as mysterious as their arrival, the herring began to disappear in the latter part of the 19th century. The shipping industry had flourished as a result of trade being widened, but soon this was also in danger. Bankruptcies occurred amongst the merchants and poverty took a grip on the city once more.

The parallels with many of our Scottish fishing communities are strong. Even today, after the military, fishing remains the most dangerous of all professions. Apart from the risks to life and limb in going to sea, the economics of it could be highly variable. Such uncertainty has always formed bonds between fishing communities, despite at times competing for the same fish from the same sea. Fishing communities are always at the mercy of politics, economics, technology, fish stocks, and above all, the hazards posed by nature.

I have to divert slightly here and mention one particular fishing community in Scotland that stands out as a place where circumstance contrived to create Scotland’s worst fishing disaster. The town of Eyemouth on the Berwickshire coast was entirely reliant on fishing. The old 19th century photographs of the day’s catch being unloaded in Eyemouth, of the townsfolk gutting and packing fish into barrels, a harbour packed solid with fishing boats, are extraordinarily similar to the photographs of people doing just the same in Stavanger. But in October 1881 a hurricane caused 189 men from the Eyemouth fleet to drown. Unfortunate circumstances had led the Eyemouth men to take a risk. One in three of the adult male population were lost at sea, a horrific tragedy which devastated the small community at the time and is still strongly felt today. It’s a story that has moved me ever since my friend Peter Aitchison, a descendant of the families involved, first told me the details. He tells the story with immense dignity and accuracy and I have no qualms in pointing you towards his book on the subject, ‘Black Friday’. Once I’d read it here in Stavanger, surrounded by fishing boats and able to smell fish somewhere nearby, the ‘silver darlings’ had a new meaning.

As volcanic ash continues to disrupt our airspace, it is odd to reflect on how fragile nature can make us feel...whether it is an ash cloud, an unexplained wave of herring, the depletion of stocks, or a dangerous storm, you can’t help wondering ‘what next?’

In Stavanger’s case, the herring disappeared, but after a few years, the city struck gold once more, and the smell of fish remained ‘the smell of money’.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - PRESERVING FISH

2010-04-17T11:36:00.001+02:00

As I was saying before I was diverted by whale, I wobbled home on my bike with a big block of frozen fish. I staggered into the kitchen and slung it down on the table where it sat steaming in the sunlight.

The fridge stared at me as though to say, ‘what now?....I’m not having that thing in here, you know.’ Apparently I was going to have to spend the afternoon dividing frozen fish into sensibly-sized portions and lugging it all into the freezer down in the basement.

I tried to open the box. This was a job for the professionals. I found my boiler suit, hard-hat and industrial gloves, hoiked my toolbox into the kitchen and set to work. I managed to open the box with a stanley-knife, and prize off the lid with a chisel. The fish was welded together with ice in a great white rectangular block. I launched an attack using the hammer and chisel, but achieved nothing but a shower of ice particles. I found a saw and began sawing through the block, but it hurt my arm. I donned a pair of safety glasses and revved up my battery-operated power-drill.

The drrrr drrrr drrrr brought a small child running into the room.

‘Wow,’ they yelled. ‘That’s the biggest ice lolly I’ve ever seen.’

Before I could reply, the child had attempted an enthusiastic lick of the giant ice-lolly, whereupon their tongue became instantly stuck fast. There were two loud yells, one from the child, and then one from me as I realised what had just happened. The child was imprisoned, by tongue, to the block, their hands waving around in panic, a pair of anxious eyes rolling up towards me in a desperate plea for help.

After several to-ings and fro-ings with hot water, we had successfully separated the tongue from the ice with minimum levels of pain. Order was restored and I decided to wait until the warmth of the sun had achieved more than I was able to, despite the wonders of my tool box. I stared blankly at the frozen block and contemplated the wonders of freezers. What a form of preservation that was? And considering how vital fish had always been to the Norwegian diet, what in the name of cod had people done before freezers?

Living in a cold climate with a harsh winter, the ability to preserve food has literally meant the difference between life and death. I ran through the various fishy options in my brain. There was Maud and her salted fish, there was the ‘stock-fish’, cod which is preserved through being dried in the salty wind in Lofoten(see photo above), and there is the ability to marinate, smoke or pickle.

Then there are two peculiarly Norwegian fishy treatments that must be mentioned.

1. Lutefisk....dried cod, left to soak for a few days in running water (often a burn or stream). Meanwhile, birch ash is boiled in water, cooled and strained. The fish soaks in this mixture (known as birch lye although it is actually potassium carbonate). A wee dicht back in the stream to wash off the lye, and it’s ready to be cooked. I am unable to comprehend the fearsome reputation of this dish, apart from the fact that it can look like grey jelly. I am happy to report, thanks to my excellent friends and their culinary expertise, Lutefisk is delicious.

2. Rakefisk....fermented fish, first recorded in Norway in 1348. Along the coast, people would ferment herring, while inland, trout, char and common white fish were used. There is a story about Rakefisk the details of which are often said of Lutefisk, but I sense the myth is muddled. Long ago, a Norwegian wife was so fed up with her greedy and debauched husband she decided to do away with him using a fish. Having caught her weapon, she doused it in caustic soda and buried it in the garden. A few weeks later, she recovered it, cooked it, and served it up on an attractive dish with an artfully arranged garnish on the top. The husband showed up for dinner, took a hearty bite, and leapt off his wooden bench in ecstasy at the brilliance of his wife’s ingenious cuisine. He lived to tell the tale and a new delicacy was born.

And then there is canning. But that’s a long story for another time.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - SELECTING FISH

2010-04-15T20:46:00.000+02:00

The fish van showed up. Ah, excellent, I thought, I’ll get a box for the freezer. Handy for all those fishy meals my kids will refuse to eat.

I cycled down to the harbour to catch Mr Fish Man and as I gazed at a wall of frozen boxes, I wondered out loud what might be nice.

‘Where are you from?’ inquired Mr Fish Man, sizing me up and down to see if I was in any way Norwegian.

‘Scotland.’

‘Well you’ll want this.’ He climbed into the fan and extracted a heavy, very cold fish box. ‘You Scottish people don’t like salted fish, so this one’s for you.’

I didn’t argue. He obviously knew more about me than I did, so I produced the required spondoolies and strapped the box onto my bike. It weighed a tonne so the ride home was hilariously precarious, reminiscent of something out of a Charlie Chaplin film.

As I cycled, I thought hard about salted fish. I was reminded of a meeting I once had with a Norwegian girl back home. Maud was a big, strong, blonde, tough, electrical engineer, a Viking with a raft of mermaid-like hair that tumbled down her back to the base of her spine, a noble brow and a palm-crushing handshake. I imagine Boadicea was exactly like this...she looked as though she’d just stepped out of a chariot having lashed her horses to smithereens as she charged into battle. You just wouldn’t mess with Maud. She worked for an oil company and was running a mind-bendingly complex operation off-shore, the basics of which eluded me within a few seconds of her starting to describe them. She spoke impeccable English, but it was the electrical engineering part that I had to pretend to understand.

Maud had grown up in the very far north of Norway, a place too remote and icy for anyone south of the Arctic Circle to have heard of before. She told me about her childhood up there in the 1960s when things in the Arctic Circle were, to say the least, basic. It didn’t exactly sound like a barrel of laughs, but maybe I’m just choosy. She was telling me all this between mouthfuls of eye-wateringly hot curry, Scotland’s ‘other’ national dish, chicken tikka masala. As I nursed my damaged right hand beneath the table, I asked her what she had eaten as a kid in the Arctic.

Her no nonsense answer was swift, precise and matter-o-fact.

‘Salt and fish. Only salt and fish. There was nothing else.’

‘Golly,’ I said, suitably impressed. Suddenly Maud seemed even tougher than Boadicea.

‘Maybe whale,’ she added. ‘Sometimes.’

You just don’t argue with Norwegians about whale, especially when they are bigger than you. The whole concept of eating whale is a step too far for us Brits, and it’s very hard to comprehend why such a foodstuff could still be available here. The issue produces actual, visible rage and red-faced fury amongst visitors to the country. I have tried, on behalf of my host country, to explain it to tourists as they stand in the fish market at the harbour and innocently point at a piece of whale meat asking what it might be. The official line put out to tourists is that the available whale-meat is the surplus produce from the whales used for scientific research...appetising eh? The tourists stand there, open-mouthed, staring at anyone who says this as though they are some kind of crazed maniac.

There are of course, still some Scots around who were a part of the Scottish whaling fleet. A job on a whaling ship was one of the toughest imaginable, and the tales those guys have to tell would make Boudicea’s hair stand on end. But, it was quite a while ago. If I feel brave enough, I will have to come back to the issue of the Norwegian whaling industry at a later date. It is a long and complicated history, but it remains the one issue that other nationalities can’t fathom. Except the Japanese.

My conversation with Maud did leave a considerable impression. Of course I was shocked, but I could at least see why eating whale was still contemplated here. If salt and fish were the norm, then whale would be a luxurious alternative, option number three on the relatively limited Arctic menu. In the 1960s, even the 70s and 80s, the choice of food on offer in Norway was nothing like we had in the UK, and while retailers are continually introducing new products, there is still far, far, far less choice than we have in the UK.

It’s funny how Mr Fish Man didn’t even mention whale to me. I know he had it in that van. I guess no matter how hard I try, I’m just never going to look Norsk.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - NON-URBAN URBANITES

2010-04-14T17:07:00.000+02:00

Is there any such thing as an urban Norwegian? If there is, they are a very rare species indeed.

A surprising 80% of the Norwegian population are classed as city-dwellers, people for whom the bustle of a city is all around them day and night. Such folk are adept at being city-slickers, looking chic, making the most of public transport, perfecting three-point turns into minute parking spaces, knowing the best places to shop, eat and keep themselves entertained.

But somehow they seem very different from the city-slickers of our British cities. They may well live in an apartment several floors above ground-level, but they are not cut off from the land, from nature, from seasonal changes. They all seem to know how to fish, how to row a boat, how to ‘brew up’ in the wild, how to ski, hike, climb and swim. Even if I lived in a flat in the heart of Oslo, it would be perfectly possible to come home from work, sling my brief case onto my Ikea sofa, lose the heels, grab the ski boots, pick up my skis and set off through the snow from my own front door. I could head up the hill behind my home and enjoy a pleasant evening on the piste.

Two Norwegian friends decided we should visit the extremely long and very high Ski-Jump at Hollenkollen, offering as it does an ideal view of the city of Oslo. The experience made me realise why Norwegians can never be serious urbanites.

While we drove up the hill towards the jump, we passed several Norwegians enjoying a typical evening of painfully steep uphill-running, some of them clearly carrying rocks in their ruck-sacks for added pleasure. As we arrived at the hilltop, we waited for them to have a little rest. PAH...as if. Did they sit down on a bench for a moment to draw breath? Please. They threw their rock-filled luggage down and immediately fell to the ground to start a series of frenzied press-ups. ‘Now that’s just showing off, buddy,’ I yelled at one of them from inside the car. He just stood up, shrugged, and set off jogging up the zillions of steps to the top of the jump itself.

We toiled up there laboriously and emerged, breathless wrecks, at the top to admire the view. All I could see was a mass of trees with one or two roof-tops sticking up between them, and a glittering fjord beyond.

‘Are you absolutely sure this is Oslo?’ I asked one of my Norwegian companions.

He rolled his pale blue eyes heavenwards in despair. ‘Well, duh. Have you noticed yourself leaving the city since you arrived yesterday? Of course it’s Oslo.’

‘Oh yeah...s’pose so,’ I said doubtfully. ‘I’ve just never seen a city that looked so like a forest.’

It turns out ‘Oslo’ in Old Norse means ‘the fields of the Gods’. With a population of just 500,000, geographically-speaking it is the largest city in Europe....it goes on for miles. Unlike other cities, space is at far less of a premium than elsewhere. Norway has the lowest population density in Europe after Iceland. No wonder they are all outdoor fitness-freaks....even if they try to be urban, climate and topography won’t allow it. Sitting at the head of the Oslofjord there is a lovely sea view for the bulk of the population. Then there’s the Nordmarka (north woods) to the north of the city which provide a ‘green belt’ for hikers and skiers. With such easy access to both sea and mountains, Oslo represents one of the most liveable cities I’ve ever seen.

Of course Scotland’s four main cities are all by the sea, and all of them have countryside and mountains within reach. But it is far more of an effort to get there, so it is not every city-dweller that can afford to enjoy the countryside. Unless you have your own transport, or you make a point of belonging to some organisation that involves you in outdoor pursuits, it costs money to get out.

You can take the girl out of Glasgow, but you can’t take the Glaswegian out of the girl. Therefore, I know there is a gaping chasm in Scotland between those who have access to the landscape, and those who do not. I’ve met inner-city children who have literally never been beyond the city boundary, who have never seen animals on farms or in the wild, never climbed a tree, hiked up a mountain, swum in a burn or the sea, or run across a moor. Often their parents are the same. The result is a disconnection from the natural world which is almost heart-breaking.

I know there are continual efforts to try to change things, so I remain hopeful. We may well have less land-area per head of population, but at least we have great landscapes, wonderful mountains, glorious seascapes, beautiful lochs and rivers, extraordinary flora and fauna. For the sake of our health and well-being, and for the good of the landscape itself, we just need to get better at sharing it.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - TALKING BOATS

2010-04-13T12:35:00.000+02:00

It’s that time of year. The sun doth shine, the wind doth blow, and suddenly legions of Norwegians are out there polishing, scrubbing, sanding, painting and generally sprucing up. Not themselves....we’re talking boats. I blinked and the season jumped from ‘ski’ to ‘boat’. My internal clock needs a moment or two to adjust.

What with the Vikings and all, this place is of course rather famous as a sea-going nation. We Scots may not have had Vikings, but thank goodness we can hold our own on the water whether as fishermen, ship-builders, naval or merchant seamen, and even Olympic medal-winning sailors. So, in the spirit of ‘keeping up with the Jones’s’, it’s time to yank the sails out from under the stairs and hose them down like a pro.

I’ve come to the conclusion if you don’t get into a boat every-so-often in Norway, you will feel like a snowball in the desert. With the longest coastline in Europe, and water everywhere, even in the interior of Norway, boats are as common as cars. The smaller ones are currently being towed from people’s drives towards the water, while the bigger ones are wandering down to the reception of their Boat Hotel and coughing up for the very large bill they have built up during their winter stay.

Others boats stoically sat in the sea throughout, tied up to the quay, oblivious to snow and ice. One brave couple decided to pick the snowiest winter in years to LIVE on their boat...they tied up at the harbour, decorated their home with twinkling lights and flags, and got on with keeping themselves warm. Boy, they must be glad to see the sun. Even in the city centre, people are hard at work scraping grime off their beloved crafts ready for the first trip of the summer out into the fjord. Yup, it’s fair to say Norwegians are very, very keen on their boats.

I am of course talking about the leisure end of things here. These boats are not required for ferrying, fishing, transporting, supplying rigs, policing or any other such purposes....those boats never stop. No, I’m talking about boats that exist for sheer, unadulterated pleasure. On my morning walk alone, I pass over a hundred such boats. I’m convinced there must be at least one boat for every family in Norway, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was more.

The variety is infinite. At one end of the scale there’s the glitzy jet-set end of things, the ‘gin-palace’ brigade who lust after the boating equivalent of the Ferrari, just for the hell of it. You’d be amazed at the sheer number them. These swanky vehicles represent millions of billions of Norwegian kroner, or dollars or rubles, as they sit bobbing about at the various harbours around town. The best of them was one I happened to notice last summer....a huge silver monster owned by some oligarch or other, someone who had smooched up the fjord into town so he (and it must have been a ‘he’) could spy on us all through smoked-glass windows while closing some shady deal on his mobile phone. We had a jolly old ogle and gave the resident oligarch a friendly wave, but he was having none of it.

What could be nicer than to entertain while out at sea, to whet your guests’ taste buds with fresh prawns and champagne while your gin-palace bounces across the foam? The world of boats intoxicates with images of the high-life, super-success and diamond-encrusted glamour. But you don’t need to be rich to enjoy a boat...here they are for everyone. Seriously, imagine my surprise while shopping in the Co-op to find sitting amidst the tins of sardines and piles of loo roll a selection of cleats, jammers, blocks and spinlocks to rival any ship’s chandler. Even I could see boats are for the masses here. Some folk take it all very seriously, while for others, it’s just the very fact they OWN a boat that is enough....one Norwegian I know of simply bought his boat so he can sit on it to read the paper in peace at the harbour every weekend, beer in one hand, prawn sandwich in the other, the perfect way to ‘slappe av’.

It’s all very ‘Ooh La La’ but I’m afraid I’m too simple a gal at heart for all that glam stuff. I prefer to feel the wind in my sails, the tug on the tiller, the nipping pain of grazed palms from clinging onto jib-sheets in a force 6. Seems to me, if the elements are there, why not use them? It’s as if skiing down a hill were not enough, so I should attach an engine to my ankles...it just seems unnecessary. Engines are for windless, becalmed moments when one is forced to burn some fuel to get home in time for your meatballs.

Whatever your poison, you should be able to find the right sort of boat for yourself. From the biggest, most luxurious monstrosities to the teeniest wee saucer, there is a boat for everyone and every occasion. And I’ve noticed, where there is water, no Norwegian will feel happy to sit BY it...he has to sit ON it. Must be in the constitution or something.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - HEROES OF TELEMARK AGAIN

2010-04-12T12:11:00.001+02:00

PART TWO

And so we continue.

The plateau, the Hardangervidda, is 3,500 square miles of bleak wilderness, and over 3000 feet above sea level. The combination of snow and fierce winds can result in it being one of the harshest places on the planet, an unforgiving monster. For the Germans, Hardangervidda was a kind of frozen hell, and they avoided it during the occupation, only venturing into the edge of it. They would not expect anyone to consider approaching the Vemock plant outside the town of Rjukan on skis from the plateau. Due to their upbringing, it seems fair to say only Norwegians might have even thought of such a plan, never mind dare to carry it out.

An advanced party of four set out first, landing by parachute at the edge of the plateau in October 1942. They were to act as a guiding party for the unit of British commandos who would be sent in by glider to blow up the plant. After six exhausting days of skiing, they found an old farm where they could eat their first proper meal. In a lucky twist, they also found a toboggan which one of them recognised as his own, having lost it as a boy....it turned out to be a vital asset to their journey.

Over the next few weeks they advanced towards the plant, enduring unimaginable cold, hunger and exhaustion, but unable to seek sanctuary amongst the scattered population...despite some of the men having grown up nearby, they were certain they would be flushed out by ‘quislings’, the term for those Norwegians who had sided with the Germans after occupation.

Having reached the area, all they could do was wait for ‘Operation Freshman’, the glider-borne attack. The plan was for thirty-four British Royal Engineers of the 1st Airborne Division plus the four-man crew of the two gliders to fight their way into the plant, attack, and escape on foot towards Sweden. One November night, the four Norwegians waited for the gliders, but to no avail. Tragically, both planes had set off from Wick in Scotland only to crash due to bad weather. Those who had survived the crash were captured, tortured and killed by the Gestapo. They were beaten, half-strangled and died a slow and painful death having had air injected into their bloodstreams. After the War, three men were charged with murder by the War Crimes Commission for this incident, two sentenced to death and one given a life sentence.

Meanwhile, the four Norwegians in the Hardangervidda, depressed by the failure of ‘Operation Freshman’, could do nothing but wait for further instruction. Soon it came. Within days, they heard that another attack was to be launched the week before Christmas. A party of Norwegians from the training unit in Scotland would be dropped on the plateau. The initial four were reaching starvation point, having run out of rations. With the Germans having discovered a possible raid on the plant, the four men had to live by their wits to avoid search parties. Moving from one isolated, abandoned hut to the next, they looked for dried fish in the walls of each building in a frenzied search for sustenance. How such desperate men managed not to fight amongst themselves, never mind remain civil in such confined, difficult and dangerous circumstances is anyone’s guess.

The winter was proving to be one of the worst in living memory, and they were now very weak with infection, cold and hunger. But on 23rd December, one of the party, Jens Poullson, spotted a heard of reindeer at the start of the migration season. Despite weeks of starvation, he managed to ski out of their temporary hut, stalk and kill a reindeer. He laughed and wept as he rushed towards the beast he had shot, and in the spirit of the northern hunters, he sat in the snow and drank its warm blood. His strength thus restored, he chopped up the carcass, and took it back to the others, thus saving their lives. They spent Christmas consuming every part of the animal apart from the hooves, the fur and the testicles, particularly relishing the eyelids. But the most significant boost to their systems was the half-chewed moss they found in the stomach, which provided much-needed Vitamin C and carbohydrate.

Due to appalling weather, it was several more weeks before the second party of six could be dropped. When this was finally achieved, and the new-comers found the original four, they were shocked at their almost unrecognisable state....starving, gaunt, almost wild, they barely looked human.

Finally, at the end of February, the raid was carried out, a textbook example of detailed planning and expert execution. The heavy water canisters were destroyed. The plant, an important asset for Norway, remained almost intact, and the saboteurs all escaped. Once again their fortitude was required as they retreated across the Hardangervidda, through life-threatening storms, dodging German search-parties and possible ‘quislings’.

Despite attempts to restart the project, the German effort to produce an atomic weapon had been foiled, thanks to the bravery of these men, their fitness of skis, the ‘good’ Norwegian people who helped them, and the reindeer. Their strength, their skiing power, their understanding of the wilderness, and their survival skills were crucial. It was felt that only Norwegians could have carried out such an operation in such circumstances.

But the most humbling aspect to the whole story is that they had all displayed huge mental and physical powers, risking their lives for months without any idea of why their mission was so important. Hitler wanted to bomb London with an atomic bomb. Such an idea was beyond anyone’s ken at the time, and the saboteurs had no real understanding of it all until after the War was over.

Historians love to kick around with ‘what if’ questions, but in this case, the ‘what if’ is too horrible to contemplate. The story of the Heroes of Telemark remains one of the most outstanding stories of modern warfare, and the modesty with which these men lead the rest of their long lives is a great testament to their character. It’s also no exaggeration to say it’s typically Norwegian.

UNSPEAKABLY NORSK THING - HEROES OF TELEMARK

2010-04-11T09:43:00.000+02:00

PART ONE

Unless you already know this story, you will think it unlikely that skiing could save the world. You already know I am a bit of a ski nut, so maybe you think I’m pushing it a bit, over-egging the pudding, super-gilding the lily. Allow me to tell the tale, and then you can judge.

As I mentioned before, many of the efforts of the Norwegian resistance that took place during the German occupation were remarkable, but perhaps the most famous is the story of the Heroes of Telemark. Hollywood had a bash at telling the story in 1965, and came up with a film that was authentic in some ways, but failed to portray the true nature of the endurance and courage of those involved. (Kirk Douglas did a good job at looking suitably rugged and Norsk, but as a whole, the picture didn’t quite cut the mustard.)

So when I read Ray Mears’s book on the subject, which had been very carefully researched by a team of dedicated experts, I was astounded to discover just what had taken place. It’s a story that every Norwegian school child is aware of, and I hope that continues to be the case. I will attempt to summarize, but really, you need to read the book.

Hitler knew that ‘heavy water’ could offer the key to defeating the Allies. Heavy water was the necessary ingredient for an atomic bomb, and the Germans well understood the technology required to use it. The only heavy water on earth at the time lay within the Norsk Hydro Plant at Vemock, outside the town of Rjukan in the Telemark region (heavy water was being manufactured as a bi-product for fertilizers). The Allies realised the plant must be attacked before the Germans could produce a bomb with which to destroy London and perhaps other British cities. The problem was, how to carry out an attack?

Vemock was situated on a cliff above a steep-sided gorge. It was also at the edge of the Hardangervidda, Europe’s largest high plateau, infamous for its ferocious weather and inhospitable terrain. One single road led into the plant, a narrow entrance with a bridge that spanned part of the gorge, so it was thought the only way to reach the target was by air. A dam lay at the head of the valley, and a plan was proposed to bomb it, thus flooding the valley. But too many innocent Norwegians civilians could die this way, so the air attack option was rejected.

The only alternative was to launch a raid which involved infiltrating the plant itself, a highly risky operation and one that was considered a suicide mission as withdrawal in the circumstances would be almost impossible. Such a raid was inconceivable to the Germans, who felt the plant was all but impenetrable.

Despite the odds, a group was selected for the raid. These guys were seriously tough young Norwegians, ardent patriots who had already risked their lives to escape occupied Norway to Britain. They were recruited into the SOE, the Special Operations Executive, the world’s first secret army, set up shortly after the outbreak of war to disrupt Germany’s efforts though guerrilla tactics and sabotage.

Already practised in the art of outdoor survival, their training took place in the hostile conditions of the Cairngorms and other parts of Scotland. There they honed their skills, keeping their skiing muscles well-tuned, perfecting the art of silent killing, and learning how to use explosives. Several of them were already champion skiers, they were all adept at dealing with snow and cold, and with their knowledge of the Telemark area, they were the only men who could have carried out such a daring and risky exercise.

In 1941 the idea of a bomb being able to destroy a whole city was seen as pure science-fiction....the general public would never have believed such a thing was possible. The fact that these men did not know the true significance to their mission, nor that Churchill or Roosevelt were both anxiously awaiting news of the plant’s destruction, merely illustrates how brave and committed to the cause they all were.

Oh, oh...I’ve used up my words quota for the day, and I can’t tell the whole story in a one go. You’ll have to tune in for part two next time. But having set the scene, I hope you’ll be flexing your muscles and wrapping up in your thermals...the next bit gets very cold and ludicrously uncomfortable.