So festivals over for another year, including this one across the road which labelled itself the Fake Fringe.  Various artistic events were held here over the weekend; none of them seemed in any way fake to me. 

I stopped here on my way home from hearing a sub-set of the Festival Chorus present a short programme of rounds ranging from "Sumer is a icumin in" to Pachelbel's well known canon arranged by their director Aidan Oliver.  His light-hearted introductions and the choir's superb singing made for a pleasant, relaxed Sunday afternoon.

Kirsty Heggie, who was performing her own songs when I arrived had a lovely bright clear voice which it was a delight to listen to.

I can't say the same for the Laura Mvula gig that I went to in the evening.  I'd heard her sing on the radio, probably in a jazz programme and was struck by the individuality of her voice and the clarity of her delivery. At the EIF gig however the sound from the band (especially a loud unrelenting beat from the bass drum) was overwhelming, making it impossible (for me at any rate) to focus on and enjoy her singing.

On the evening that I saw 1902 in the railway Arches near the bottom of Leith Walk the heid bummer from Broadway Baby presented the show with a wee statuette of Greyfriars Bobby, this being a tribute to a show which in his opinion merited far more than 5 stars.  Other critics have also enthused over this story of the travails of a quartet of ardent Hibees whose desire to get to the 2016 Scottish Cup Final lands their leader in very hot water and his brother in a hole in the ground.

There's no faulting the energy and commitment shown by the cast as they rush up and down, in and out and around and about narrowly avoiding the audience squeezed tightly into the venue. Nor are their interactions any less intense.  Faces up close they scream at one another. The fights are realistic.  Musical contributions are excellent. There's even humour and the narration of the cup final conveys all the highs and lows that float over to my flat from Easter Road when there's a big match on.

All the same it's largely a sequence of; the baddie comes in, there's a shouting match (not conducive to clear articulation), the baddie leaves.  Repeat until a death occurs. Cuts could only improve the show.

I really love short films for their concision and focus.  Usually shown in a programme of half a dozen or more the good ones hit the spot and the duds don't last long.  Not that there were any duds in the Nightpiece Film Festival programme (one of five) that I saw.  They've been coming to the Fringe for some years apparently but this is the first time I've been aware.  That was thanks to the fact that a friend's grandaughter's boyfriend had directed one of those chosen by the organisers this year.  The granddaughter's mother, father and little sister came up from England to see it and I met them before the screening.

Ben the boyfriend's film was first up.  The Ark was a well crafted piece about the eponymous  mysterious organisation that had apparently sent a couple to assasinate a woman.  I'm not sure I understood all the twists and turns that led to would be assasin number one seemingly being eliminated by assasin two at the behest of The Ark but still.

The programmes and their films are listed here.  I saw the Hearts of Darkness programme.  I wish I'd seen them all.

In the opening remarks to a Book Festival event the presenter told us "my pronouns are her and she".  She went on to tell us that one of her guests (who it transpired used the same pronouns) had written a book of contemporary feminist ghost stories.

Two thoughts crossed my mind.  One - this is surely going to be too woke for me.  Two - why have I chosen to come to this event?

Well it wasn't intrusively woke and the ghost stories didn't feature.  Two books about words were under discussion and what's more one of them was about Japanese words.  So I knew why I was there.

Eley Williams' The Liar's Dictionary is an entertaining novel (I've read it since) about a 19th century lexicographer who inserts mountweazels into the fictional Swansby's New Encyclopaedic Dictionary and the 21st century young woman who is employed to root them out in preparation for digitisation of the dictionary.

Polly Barton's Fifty Sounds, which I have not yet read, is a memoir of sorts of time lived in Japan each of whose fifty chapters is a Japanese mimetic word. Japanese is it seems second only to Korean in the extent to which words like our miaou, woof and bang-bang pepper the language.  Barton studied philosophy then taught English in Japan and ended up as a literary translator from Japanese to English.  I'll tell you what I think when I've read it.  Don't hold your breath.

Back at the EIF I went to an event consisting of two string quartets numbered 13 played by the Gringolts Quartet.  In the delightful setting of the Old Quad pavilion Mozart's String Quartet 13 strikes a sombre note.  It's not the jolly sort of stuff that he mostly wrote but has a touch of his requiem to come about it.  Dvorak's similarly numbered work however was jolly and so it should have been given that he wrote it when he had returned to Europe from three none too happy years in America.  

One of the joys of this summer has been to frequent the various outdoor drinking and eating spots that have proliferated partly but not entirely in response to Covid.  While there have been plenty of visitors in town they have not flooded us out so it's been easier to find a space.  I particularly enjoyed time spent in the Pleasance and Summerhall courtyards.

Nearly forgot.  The Grads Fringe involvement this year was online, a trio of plays.  Ripe for Improvement was an amusing encounter between a couple looking to buy a house and a seller intent on putting them off.  Guilty Animals starts with a firefighter under investigation over a fire at his ex-partners home, a fire in which she died.  The story works its way backwards through time to a point that clinches what we already are sure of.  He did it.  Going backwards can be dangerous but this play carried it off well.  The Report, clearly inspired by Grenfell interrogates the architect, the builder, the council official whose names feature in the report of some incident.  The same three actors take the parts of interrogator, note taker and interrogatee in turn. Under questioning each one presents cogent reasons why no responsibility attaches to them for the outcome of the identified failures in their area of involvement.  A clever play superbly presented and with a sting in the tail for the buck passers.

A view from inside the pavilion that the EIF has built in the Old Quad to meet the demands of the pandemic by keeping its audiences together but apart (socially distanced seating) and inside but outside (walls open to the wind). 

I was in the Old Quad at noon on a blissfully sunny and warm day to hear classical music live for only the second time since Covid cancelled everything.  It was delicious.  The young Dutch violinist Noa Wildschut played a sonata by Fauré, a selection of Shostakovich preludes, a pair of Sibelius pieces and the spooky, lively, lightning fast Dance Macabre of Saint-Saens.  She finished off with a contrasting slow and peaceful encore from Gluck's Euridice that had the audience spellbound as its closing notes drifted quietly away.  Hats off too to her accompanist Latvian pianist Lauma Skride who had stepped in at short notice to replace an injured Elisabeth Brauß. 

The previous week I was in the pavilion's big sister out at Edinburgh Park.  You could shelter an aircraft carrier in it. I had gone to see Shona the Musical Choir.  A Scottish/African choir are developing a musical interracial love story that has the modern history of Zimbabwe and its Shona people as background.  It was a little hard to follow the narrative but the music, singing and dancing were joyful and exuberant.  

Joyful and exuberant are not terms you could apply to the EIF's only substantial theatre offering but Medicine at the Traverse was stunning.  Rather than my feeble attempts at describing it read Joyce Macmillan's five star review in The Scotsman.

I left the festivals to their own devices for an afternoon to listen to a reading of Animal Farm on Radio 4 Extra, followed by an "In our Time" episode discussing the book.  Had the weather been better I'd have gone to Holyrood Park to see what the EIF programme calls "a durational outdoor dance-happening conceived in a physically distanced world".  Not sure which of these is truly satire.

 

After one of my Fringe shows I walked home via the Canongate and was entranced by the renovation of the physic garden and the Abbey Strand buildings.  The garden was opened to the public in November last and although I've passed that way since I hadn't noticed and I think the buildings have only recently lost a carapace of scaffolding, but for me recently often turns out to mean within the last year or three.

I had a festival packed weekend with a leisurely start at 11.30 on Saturday at the Book Festival.  They've moved from Charlotte Square to the Art College.  The Covid diminished festival fits into the space but I think it would be a bit of a squeeze if they were ever to welcome the crowds of the past.  However I believe the intention is to continue with the hybrid model that combines a limited number of events in which writers and audience are physically together onsite with many events that allow a worldwide audience and a worldwide body of writers to get together online.  

Thomas Pringle was a writer from the Borders who led a party of settlers to South Africa in 1820.  He was not much cop as a farmer and went off to Capetown where he was involved in running a school and running newspapers.  He fell foul of the colonial government and returned to London where he became secretary of the Anti-Slavery Society.  Known, at least from a white colonial standpoint, as the father of South African poetry; literary awards are made there in his name to this day.  But he's not well known in Scotland.

Indeed he was unknown to Stuart Kelly, a Borderer himself and a literary critic who lives a stone's throw from Pringle's birthplace.  He was at the festival to discuss with Zoe Wicomb her novel Still Life.  At school in South Africa she had to learn a number of his poems by heart.  Intrigued by the man, his championship of native rights, the paradoxies of his life she has written a novel that weaves together real and fictitious characters in a time-shifting story that she insists cannot be characterised as a historical novel and which Scottish publishers turned down as being too difficult for the reader. 

I hope it's not too difficult for me because I bought a copy.

I suppose we could call the version of The Importance of Being Earnest that I went on to see an inclusive production.  Thanks to the conceit of replacements being needed for actors who hadn't turned up it included members of the audience. There was even an audition for the part of Miss Prism, the winner being selected by audience acclaim.

If these were plants they were very skilful actors indeed but I fear they were genuine punters.  I don't want to be negative about this production.  I'm sure it wasn't that easy to do. The audience actors clearly enjoyed their frolics on stage.  The audience were in gleeful fits.  A good time was being had by all.  I loathed it and left well before the end.

Now I didn't loathe the next one but The Laird Strikes Back struck me as much less entertaining than it might have been.  We meet Gussie McCraig, the sort of Scottish toff who went to Eton, hunts shoots and fishes, drinks to excess, condescends now and then to the odd Scots expression but strangles the vowels and holds opinions to the right of right.

He's practising a speech or presentation, swilling whisky and consulting notes as he does so.  He does that so well that I wondered if indeed he didn't know the lines.  But he inhabits the character brilliantly.  There's a videoed sequence of him on a Zoom call, sozzled and as we see at one point semi-clad.  Super acting but I couldn't for the life of me work out who the call was with or what its point was.

We see him later in Number 10 blethering on about what he said to Dom and how he sorted out Carrie while waiting to be fired for some misdemeanour.

Being fired leads to elevation to the Lords and a spot opening COP26 against a backdrop that unaccountably proclaims the conference to be being held in association with Italy.  Something to do with the Mafia?

Satire I think needs a much better defined target and a razor sharp delivery. But the actor was great.

Saturday night at Tynecastle.  I think only the second time I've been in the stadium.  This time at least it was to do with football.  In case you're wondering the last time was to watch rugby league with my late chum Dick Bowering.  The play Sweet F.A. is about the flourishing of women's football before, during and for a few years after the First World War before it was consigned to oblivion for decades.

A talented cast of about a dozen women act and sing their way through the story of the creation of a works team, their victories, their defeats and their struggles with the SFA.  Their individual backgrounds with husbands, brothers and lovers off to war and the close relationship two of the women develop are skilfully woven in.

The show is joyous, funny and moving.  Maybe a bit long when the cold wind of a Scottish summer evening blows through the park.

I began Sunday with Richard Holloway, everyone's favourite former bishop, talking to Joan Bakewell, one of my favourite former frequent faces on TV.  She's getting on a bit (88) and has downsized from a large Victorian house where she'd lived for fifty years to a ground floor studio flat and has wrtten a book about it, The Tick of Two Clocks. 

The discussion moved from this particular experience to the more general problems of old age both for individuals and for society, to the question of assisted dying. What's the difference Joan asked, between upping the dose of morphine in the name of palliative care and the same manoeuvre to take the pain away forever.  What indeed?

Black is the Colour of my Voice was the choice of our Thursday online theatre watching group a month or two back.  I missed it but probably would have enjoyed it.  I most certainly enjoyed it live.  I count Nina Simone amongst my favourite jazz singers and Apphia Campbell's voice has similar strengths but the focus of the show is not on Simone's jazz repertoire or that aspect of her life but on her beginnings and on her growth through the civil rights movement. Campbell shows herself to be an accomplished actress as much as singer.

The show ran for a bit longer than billed and I had to sprint up from the bowels of the EICC and walk vigorously to the Filmhouse bus stop where after only two minutes wait an 11 whisked me off and deposited me at the door of St Andrew's and St George's West with seconds to spare before the Guitar Recital I had come to hear started.

I was greeted by name.  You recognised me, I said.  The lady on the door didn't seem to realise this was meant to be a joke and informed me in serious tones that I happened to be the only single (ie unaccompanied) attendee on the list.

The recital was lovely.  A complete contrast to the show I'd just come from.  Quiet, contemplative classical pieces.  I didn't have a programme so I've no idea what the guitarist played.  He didn't announce any of the pieces.  Indeed he didn't so much as say hello or goodbye.  He just melted on and melted off.

Then to the Castle Terrace muti-storey carpark rechristened MultiStory for the nonce.  Rituel was a dance-like piece in which four young men, assisted at times by a guitar player or by a soundtrack, played out the sort of male bonding games that characterise the growth from childhood to adulthood.  It was excellent and the release of a helium filled balloon into the sky at the end was a beautiful moment though no doubt environmentally questionable.

Back to the Book Festival for a discussion between Alan Little and Nick Bryant about the latter's When America Stopped Being Great.  Bryant has reported from America  since 1984 and regards the roots of Trump's ascendancy as dating back decades to Vietnam and earlier.  This was an interesting conversation and on the day that Kabul fell to the Taliban the book's title could not have been more appropriate.

In the week of the Plymouth shootings Screen 9 also resonated with the present.  It's an account, in the words of survivors, of the mass murder of twelve individuals and the injuring of many more at the midnight premiere of a Batman film in Aurora, Colorado in 2012. 

You're offered popcorn as you enter what could well be a cinema.  The four actors appear on stage below a screen on which a blurred image is being projected.  They recount how they spent the day of the screening; how they were looking forward to it; how they'd decided to go; how they prepared.

Lights go down.  The actors take up positions amongst us in the audience.  They tell us what happened.  The teargas canister.  The shots.  The blood.  Their friends, relatives dying beside them.

Back on stage the aftermath; the grief; the questions; the guilt; the ongoing fear.

This is a fine piece of theatre that to a British audience, even with Plymouth a live issue, causes us continuing puzzlement at the role of guns in American culture. 

The festivals are back and crowds of visitors with them. Not in quite such overwhelming numbers as we've been used to in recent years but enough for the Grassmarket to be packed with outdoor diners on a sunny Saturday. 

 The Royal Mile has it's entertainers again, who like policemen get younger every day.

Not everyone enjoys the shows they go to see and some go to extreme lengths to leave the venue.

Luckily most of the shows I've seen so far have been worth the investment of my time and treasure.

I started off with Phantasmaphone at the French Institute.  Alone in a little cubby hole just inside the building you pick up a phone and have a fifteen minute chat with someone in Paris about whatever you like but which ends up with them reading you a poem.  The reading will be in French but you can chat in English though I gave my French a whirl in what was the first conversation I've held in the language for two years.  A great start.

A little later came Granny Smith, also at the Institute.  The billing reads "Join us for a show full of humour and gentle instruction on language and cooking."  What I hadn't picked up was that it was really a kids' show.  In fact that made it even more fun.  The actress (English but working in France for thirty years or so) explained that the show had been developed following requests for a show that would help with language learning.  So she potters about getting up in the morning, having a cup of tea and so on the while getting across various French words.  She has the whole audience up doing a French hands kness and boomps-a-daisy at one point.

The centrepiece of the show is the making of a cake and by this time she's got three kids on stage reading the recipe, mixing the ingredients and generally having the time of their lives.  Three adults in the front row were handed a pear and a peeler each and instructed to "épluchez les poires et enlevez les trognons".  It's pretty obvious that means "peel the pears and take out the cores" but I don't know that I'd ever come across the word "trognon" before so the language learning objective was met in my case at least.

Unfortunately there was then a fire alarm and we all had to leave the building.  We hung about for a while chatting and one little girl who'd been sitting near me and sticking her hand in the air whenever a volunteer was called for and who had obviously been deeply disappointed at never being chosen bravely went up to Granny and asked if she could take part when the show resumed. 

I had a lunch date so didn't wait for the resumption.  I've since had an invitation from the Institute to go again but I doubt that I will though I highly recommend the show even if you don't have a kid to take you.

In the afternoon I saw Moonlight on Leith.  This had a faint whiff of Under Milk Wood about it as the doings of several denizens of Leith are displayed and in the heightened language of the narrative.  There's not what you'd call a plot but there's a romance here and there, a glimpse at interconnecting lives, animal as well as human and the exposure of the nasty developer who wanted to tear down the red sandstone parade in Leith Walk but was foiled by the community.  Ably presented by recent graduates of acting courses offered by Napier and Queen Margaret universities. 

I thought I was going to see a play but Love in the Time of Lockdown was a sketch show.  Some of the sketches were quite substantial though and one quite a moving riff on loneliness. The accent in general however was on humour.  Even the slightest was entertaining and very well played by an excellent cast.  The opening sketch was love blossoming between a man and his lady vaccinator which she explains as he goes off happens several times a day.  My own particular favourite was the woman in love with her car who it turned out returns the feeling and has a voice with which to tell her so. 

Miss Lindsay's Secret at the Netherbow was the sad story told through letters to her of a romance that never flowered. Her young man left Glenesk to seek a fortune in the Yukon gold rush at the beginning of the twentieth century and conducted a correspondence over a period of years.  All we know of what she said to him is conveyed by what he said in reply because she kept his letters but we have no idea what happened to hers.  He talks about how he longs to come home and how his luck is bound to change soon but it never does.  The letters stop or she didn't keep them or they got lost after fifteen years or so.  She died unmarried still in the glen at 85.  He also died unmarried in Canada never having been home.  As well as two actors there was a musician on stage whose playing sometimes for my taste intruded on what was a fine if depressing production.

It hasn't all been about festivals.

You no longer need to book an entry slot to the Botanics so I had a pleasant stroll around them last week and went on to Stockbridge where I bought some tasty bread and cheese and things.  I had a delicious dinner at the Outsider.  I was supposed to go on to a show but lingered over dinner instead.  It turned out to be a good choice because I'd have missed it anyway.  I thought it was at the Pleasance, not far from the restaurant.  But it was at "The Pleasance@EICC",  a much further away venue.

I had a rehearsal (online) for a short podcast play and I went to the dentist.

Back to the festivals for my next post.

 

The Forth Rail Bridge from underneath with a glimpse of the two road bridges upstream taken from a wee boat on which I went for a wee excursion one recent sunny Saturday.  The intention was to go with Siobhan.  Indeed she had organised the trip but was unwell on the day so I went alone.

The Maid of the Forth took us under the rail bridge and downriver to Inchcolm, rounded the island and then up to and under the two road crossings and back down to the Hawes Pier at South Queensferry where we had embarked.  It was a lovely sail.  You can spend time on Inchcolm and catch a subsequent sailing back but tickets for that option were sold out.

When I was a child excursions to Inchcolm ran from Aberdour and I visited the island that way probably more than once.  I also remember travelling on the ferry between Burntisland and Granton.  The world's first roll on roll off rail ferry ran on that route but that was well before my time.  It fell out of use after the rail bridge was built.

But there was a passenger and vehicle ferry which I travelled on when I was at primary school.  There's not much about it on the internet. According to my researches it ran for only a couple of years from 1951 to the end of 1952, although in The Scotsman in the summer of 1950 there are adverts for excursions from Granton to Inchcolm and for a service to Burntisland.

One post on the net recalls using the ferry for summer holidays at a grandparent's house in Burntisland where they were joined from Friday to Sunday by their father.  Another says that the service was popular on a Sunday when only bona fide travellers could get a drink and then only in a hotel bar.  A substantial detachment of policemen were apparently deployed to meet the last ferry as it docked at Granton on a Sunday night to welcome the returning drinkers.

There's a picture of one of the ferries, the Glenfinnan, here and another of her leaving Granton for India in 1954 (sold on presumably) here.  

I found mention also of a catamaran service in 1991 on the route.  I don't remember that at all but I do remember a brief trial by Stagecoach of a hovercraft service between Kirkcaldy and Portobello.  According to The Scotsman the trial did not result in a full service because Edinburgh City Council refused planning permission for a hovercraft terminal in Portobello.

The festivals are all doing their best to present something this summer despite Covid.  Much of what is available will be on-line but some are in-person events.

First to get going was the Jazz and Blues Festival.  They offered 42 gigs.  All were available on-line either streamed as they happened or on demand afterwards.  You could get that for the bargain price of £40.  I don't know how many live in-person events there were but I went to three.  They were held at The Roxy and were very well organised with respect to Covid restrictions and they were pretty good musically as well.

I had a day out that was almost like a pre-Covid experience.  I went to an enthralling exhibition at the Museum about typewriters that had on display very early models and more modern ones that I recognised.  There was quite a lot about the social impact they had, particularly how they provided a route to economic independence for many women.

Then I had lunch al fresco in Victoria Street before heading to the National Library to see two exhibitions.  One was Petticoats and Pinnacles whose virtual opening I posted about recently.  There's more about the women who feature in the exhibition here.

The other was about Henrietta Liston focussing on the years she spend in Istanbul (then known as Constantinople).  She accompanied her husband there in 1812 when he was appointed ambassador to the Sublime Porte.  It celebrates the publication by Edinburgh University Press of her Turkish Journals 1812 to 1820 but there is some additional material about her origins in Antigua and her travels in North America.  Very interesting and a lot more is to be found here and here.   

I saw a couple of plays on-line.  Bitter Enders was billed as a black comedy.  The setting was a Palestinian house that had been half taken over by Israeli settlers.  A dividing line ran through the living room and the comedy and the blackness were supplied I suppose by the dilemma the Palestinian family found themselves in when a doll was thrown over the line in a fit of temper by one of them.  We never saw the Israelis unfortunately.  That might have offered an opportunity for substantially more comedy and blackness than we got.

The other was a Young Vic production from 2014 of A View from the Bridge.  I thought it was tremendous and the Guardian of the time agreed with me and gave it five stars.  Not all of our theatre viewing group agreed, mainly because of the stripped down staging.

The Lyceum/Pitlochry Soundstage play for July was Black Diamonds and the Blue Brazil, a story of devotion to lower league football and the love of a daughter for her father.  It was funny, moving and thoroughly enjoyable.  What's more it introduced me to a Scots usage that I had hitherto been unaware of.  Returning to Cowdenbeath from Los Angeles for her father's funeral the protagonist (played beautifully by Cora Bisset) is asked about "the purvey".  By which is meant the food and drink served on social occasions, in this case a funeral.

Much attention, including mine, has rightfully been paid to the Olympics these past ten days or so.  I'm not much of a football fan but I turned to Eurosport to watch the Copper Queens, Zambia's women's team, in their first match.  Up against the Netherlands, 100 places higher in the FIFA rankings the outcome was never in doubt.  Indeed they got thumped but they did put 3 goals past the opposition and the game was so enjoyable that I decided to watch their second match.

This was against China, 89 places higher in the rankings.  Barbra Banda who scored the 3 goals against the Netherlands produced another hat-trick here and as the match approached its close Zambia led 4-3 but handball in the goalmouth gave China a penalty and led to a 4 all draw.

Again it was an enjoyable game to watch so I was eager to see how they'd do in their final group match against Brazil, 97 places higher.  Maybe 15 minutes into the game a courageous save by Zambia's goalie ended with her being stretchered off, a Zambian player being sent off (a harsh decision) and Brazil being awarded a free kick just outside the box from which they scored.  It was 11 girls against 10 for the rest of the match but Zambia held off the might of Brazil till the final whistle going down only 1-0.

Claiming third place in the group they deserve a hero's welcome when they get home. 

I've watched a whole bundle of other sports.  The sailing coverage has been particularly good with excellent and exciting on the water filming, good graphics and intelligent commentary.  I enjoyed seeing two 13 year olds taking gold and silver in skateboarding but I feared for the competitors as they took tumbles on what seems to be concrete.  Gymnastics I always enjoy and fencing repaid the hour or two I spent watching that.  BMX racing was new to me but was a great watch and I believe the BMX freestyle is even more exciting.  I was struck by the elaborate costumes worn by some lady shooters.  I couldn't for the life of me see what they contributed but maybe they're just meant to look impressive.  I was sorry to see Djokovic not achieve his golden slam but not as sorry as he clearly was when he lost the compensatory bronze.  But I suppose he can afford to smash a racquet or two.  Even straightforward running and swimming has entertained.

I've watched most of that on laptop or tablet because my telly broke down more or less simultaneously with the start of the Olympics but I got a new and bigger one on Friday which improves matters.  It seems huge to me but I'm sure I'll get used to it and it's still a 10" smaller screen than calculation recommends for my viewing position.

I usually find myself doing a tax return about this time of year and this time HMRC told me I owed them 35p which I duly sent by bank transfer.  I think they could have let me keep it.

One of the Covid rules that has been most irksome socially has been the limitation to three of households eating together in a restaurant.  That has now been increased to four and I duly took advantage of it with lunch at La Casa in Leith Walk yesterday where four of us enjoyed the birthday lunches we've been forced to miss since whenever.