For reasons that I’ve forgotten but seemed to make sense at the time, I got the notion to take our tents out of storage in the garage and pitch them to see what kind of condition they’re in.
We’ve never been a camping family as such. There were early adventures in tents at the Cambridge Folk Festival, but we haven’t been there since 1985, and that was followed by a disastrous trip to Devon which would have been wonderful had it not been torrential rain for much of it–torrential enough to breach the waterproofing on the Vango tent we had with us.
Inside the Zephyros
The three we have (I thought there were four but seemingly not) were bought for specific purposes. One, which has survived a remarkably long time, was a cheapy from Tesco bought for the sole purpose of being something for the kids to play in and occasionally camp out in the garden. There’s also a good Coleman 3-person tent that I bought for a Holmfirth Folk Festival, knowing I’d probably need the space for wet gear (and I was correct: that was a wet weekend as well). It’s too heavy for walking with, but in very good condition otherwise.
midnight sun
The third is a Terra Nova/Wild Country Zephyros 1, a very lightweight one person tent I got for a spot of wild camping up in Sutherland that didn’t happen in the end. It’s only been used once, on a trial run in the garden to learn how to pitch it. It is snug for me (I’m 5’10” or thereabouts,) but it’s OK. Of them all, this is the one I’d still like to get some use out of next time we get to the Highlands, and preferably Sutherland and one of the remoter beaches).
I did have a fleeting notion to sleep out there tonight, just for the novelty of it, though what the foxes would make of my snoring I don’t know. A difficulty is the time of year and the light. The third picture was taken from my bedroom last night at midnight, looking northeast. This is not a problem if you’re on a West Highland beach slathered in midgie cream: it is an issue in a suburban garden with sufficient distractions to prevent sleep without the added one of the light.
All three are staying out tonight as there is rain forecast for overnight. This will let me know that they are all still watertight. Assuming they are, I’d like to get some more use out of the Zephyros at least.
The coronavirus is spreading too rapidly and too broadly for the U.S. to get it under control as some other countries have, Dr. Anne Schuchat, principal deputy director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, said Monday.
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Music: It is now 100 days since we went into lockdown. I’ve posted something here every day since 15 March, which has not always been easy. I’ve put a piece of music here every night since about then too, and, as far as I know, haven’t repeated myself.
Liminal is an overused word these days. It was a technical term in anthropology for a long time, but its expansion in meaning from a transitional state in a rite of passage to a more general state of being ‘between’ is more recent. I haven’t pinpointed quite when that happened–liminal isn’t even in my 1989 edition of Chambers English Dictionary (except as a component part of subliminal), so it, together with liminality, must have come into popular usage since then, possibly via the psychogeographers, or through literary theory.
suppose they gave a catastrophe and nobody died; Barbados, January 2012
Be that as it may, I sense that we are still in liminal days, in transit between one normality and another. That’s a trite observation, but the sense was strong today.
I’m not thinking only of the virus and all that will flow from it, I’m thinking more broadly. I hinted at it the other night when I mentioned in passing that the arctic is burning. Catastrophism is a seductive thing, and like all seductive things can overwhelm and dominate your thinking, can become the interpretive framework of your senses and perceptions.
I am not given generally to catastrophism. History is full of people predicting the end of the world and finding themselves still here, embarassed, the day after. And I’m not going there.
But.
Not only are we in an intersticial state regarding the way our daily lives are led (and still between phases of the current pandemic which is by no means over), we are also coming out of the two and a half centuries of industrialisation behaving in a way that means we will not reverse, or even mitigate, the damage we’ve done to the climate. For a moment there, in late March and through April and May, we had a glimpse of an alternative. Too little, too late.
That makes me sound more gloomy than I am. But not much.
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I took a walk along to the supermarket this afternoon, as much to use my legs as anything else. Things are definitely busier, though not yet back to pre-lockdown levels. My impression again is that more people are using masks in store, though it isn’t a majority. I did notice our local guitar shop is now open, although with restricted entry. I doubt they’d be keen to let someone in just to have a noodle on whatever is on the racks. Having said that, I’m playing so little at the moment it would be a bit of a waste of time going in, except for strings.
Also, I bought a kit electric guitar a few years back that I haven’t built. That would be a fun project later in the year, once I’ve finished the mandolin I started but haven’t finished…
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Music: I was tempted by REM; I was also looking for something Persian/Iranian because I enjoyed Samirah Ahmed’s Art Of Persia and finally found out today where they sourced the (uncredited) music. Instead I’m going old school.
Mary O’Brien’s life was more chaotic than her management let it be known at the time, but boy could she sing.
When I went out to the shed first thing this morning, to water the tomato plants, it was fresh and breezy with rain in the air. It reminded me very much of the Highlands. What I was recognising, I think, was the continued clarity of the air up on the hill post-lockdown.
St John’s Road Traffic monitor
The bottom of our hill is frequently cited as one of the most polluted stretches of road in Scotland, so I had a look at the monitor since 1 January this year. Looking at the NO2 levels, spot the impact of lockdown.
That will change, so I should enjoy it while I can. No doubt, when the wind is right, I’ll soon be able to enjoy again the sweet smell of aviation fuel from the airport as well.
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I took a trip to a hardware/garden store earlier and got almost nothing that I wanted since those items were sold out. It was a bit pointless standing in the queue with my mask on. I got some odds and ends, but it looks like every gardener, however casual, had been there and stripped the shelves. Meantime, I’m hoping our garden will produce apples, plums, damsons, tomatoes and potatoes this year. Next year, when I have a greenhouse sorted, I have greater ambitions.
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I wrote 1000 words this afternoon/evening. As I often say, they aren’t necessarily good words when they first come out, but they keep the momentum going. The writing happens when you come to revise, whenever that may be. That’s when you take the tumbling heap of words and strip away all those that aren’t story, character, place or otherwise relevant. Then you take the output and, using ancient alchemical mysteries, transmute it into rejection letters.
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Music. A month and a half ago, in my urgent need to visit a pub, I posted a tune by the late Nick Keir, who wrote the best songs about Edinburgh I know. This is another of them. I like this so much I sometimes just put the cd player on repeat. There are aspects of Edinburgh that irritate me; this song reminds me of all the reasons I love it. It reminds me of sitting in winter, with a good pint, by the open fire in the Jolly Judge, thinking about the second pint to come.
Saturday, Saturday, ever-lovin’ Saturday… An old Radio 1 jingle, lifted from a Carpenters record is floating around my head. Odd.
Anyway, the weather has been mixed: quite hot in the direct sun, but that was infrequent. Mostly, the sun was behind clouds. I was in the shed this afternoon, listening to a 1970 album that was (a) completely new to me and (b) a joy. I wrote about it. I was working on fiction too, which was a pleasure.
I was taking a break, sitting out on the shed porch, sheltering from the vertical rain out of the grey sky, when a male bullfinch made a rare appearance at the birdfeeder. It was a joyful thing, tempered by what, I realise, is becoming a familiar complaint. Where, a couple of weeks ago, there was only the sound of birdsong, now there is the drone of distant traffic, and the white hiss of tyre tread across tarmac.
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In 1996, talking about investor behaviour, Allan Greenspan coined the term irrational exuberance. Looking at the headlines today about opening up of tourist routes across Europe again, I can’t help but use the same phrase.
There’s been a lot of fuss made in the past few days about crowded beaches and the behaviour of some people on them. In the big picture, socially distanced, outdoors on the beach, while risky, carries considerably less risk than parading through airports and travelling in aircraft, especially crammed like pilchards in budget airlines. Not to mention the role of mass transit as a transmission vector for the current (and other) viruses.
Maybe I’m just being a miserabilist, but you won’t be catching me flying or using mass transport for long-distance travel for some time to come .
Also, ignored by almost all of the press, the Arctic is burning.
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Music: written in 1969, released in 1970. Joni Mitchell.
The light is strange outside as I write this, yellow, heavy with the threat of rain. There have been thunderstorms elsewhere today, but Edinburgh has missed them. Probably not a late night on the patio tonight, then. I was out untill 11-ish last night, but it got chilly in the breeze. Thankfully, I did get a decent night’s sleep; partly because of the cooler air (the bedroom window was open) but also because of a good night mask over my eyes. Thanks to Sheila, a regular commenter here, for the recommendation.
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I often mention my shed here, which is where I mostly listen to music and write. It was my office for working from home until last year. It’s been there since October 2012 and has stood the test of time pretty well, I think, though there’s been a little settlement underneath it. Anyway, it is currently in the process of being refinished–a thorough sanding, wood preservative applied and then a stain applied. Together with some other odds and ends that need to be done, that prepares the way for a greenhouse adjacent to it.
One of the benefits of a greenhouse will be that, next year, the shed will not fill with tomato plants 🙂
And, talking of writing, a quick 1970 music post plus 700+ words of fiction were produced in the shed this afternoon and evening.
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Music: Since writing the opening paragraph of this entry, the sky blackened from the South East until it it got really quite dark, thunder rumbled round the sky, and there was a sharp downpour.
Tonto’s Expanding Headband (yes Keiwit, they did exist, I’m not making it up) only released two albums, but both were hugely influential. TONTO was The Original New Timbral Orchestra, essentially a massively customised pair of Moog Series IIIc synthesisers with various modules, many homemade, patched in. TONTO was much in demand by the likes of Stevie Wonder and Weather Report.
Of course, if you’re like me, you’ll have both of the original albums. I bought the second of them, It’s About Time in North Berwick in summer 1976, and this is one of my favourite tracks on it. It ends with the sounds of a storm, which is why it came to mind. (What, you didn’t think I was going to play The Doors did you?)
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