There are elections going on at the moment.  The recent pipe bomb thrown at the prime minister had something to do with them.  In Kanazawa it's loudspeaker violence that assaults the public.  I passed this lady one morning on my way to class.  Of course I've no idea what her speaker is being loud about but the phrase meaning "thankyou very much" which I can pick out gets a lot of airtime.  If she doesn't get the votes will she take to the streets to shout insults for her wasted thanks?

In the old days wealth and martial skills got you power and Kanazawa was a samurai city with money, hence the beautiful castle and a number of well preserved historic neighbourhoods. Those were spared from WWII bombing and are now the haunt of tourists snapping away and eating gold leaf ice-cream.  

Kanazawa has been working gold leaf for centuries having had small gold deposits.  The kanji characters for its name,  金沢, literally mean gold swamp.  My teacher tells me that as a child he used to go gold panning in a stream near his home. It was a game more than anything.

I've wandered round those neighbourhoods and taken a few snaps.

Inside the Samurai house in Nagamachi Buke-Yashiki district

A corner of the garden

The samurai himself safely behind glass

Houses in Higashi Chaya district

Girls in their Sunday best in Higashi Chaya

The gold leaf ice-cream they've probably just enjoyed

Back in the centre of town in the castle grounds there is an absolutely delightful garden which was laid out in 1634, fell into disrepair around 1900 but has since been reconstructed starting in 2013 after five years excavation and study of ancient drawings and literature.  Just one picture to show you its glory.

Goykusen'inmaru garden

As I write this I'm listening to a French saxophonist that I'd never heard of until I had lunch one day in a bar called Jazz Bokunen where curry lunches and music are the menu du jour. You can have a dose of Lagavulin on the side as one of these pictures shows.

The music available

 

Fancy a dram with your jazz?

The record being played. The big B tells you which side.

 I went to Hiroshima at the weekend. It takes between four and five hours by train depending on how long you have to wait for a connection at Shin-Osaka.  Of the 50 busiest railway stations in the world 46 are in Japan and Shin-Osaka is one of those.  Not only is it busy but it's big.  Thanks to the app I had used to scope the journey I'd accepted in good faith its connection time of 9 minutes which given the reputation of Japanese trains for punctuality could have been OK, although if I'd understood what the ticket office chappie was saying I'd have realised that he was pointing out that it was a bit tight.  

It's one of the features of using a foreign language that having worked out and rehearsed in your head what you want to say understanding the response is not always very easy.  And believe me when the responder is wearing a face-mask it's orders of magnitude more difficult and 99% of the Japanese are wearing them.  That rises to 100% in shops, restaurants, railway ticket offices and so forth.

Anyway when my teacher sucked his breath in and winced I realised the error of my ways and practised my queuing skills to change the ticket.  The ticket in question was actually for a seat rather than a journey but that's something I may return to.

En route to and from Hiroshima I took a few pictures through the window.  Not the best situation in which to take pics and most are destined for the bin but I did capture a couple of interesting things.  This big statue for instance

My teacher is a Bhuddist so I thought he might be able to enlighten me although it's obviously not Bhudda himself.  Well he tells me that in the period known as the "bubble economy" round about the mid 80s people had money to burn and liked to show off by putting up statues and other follies.  He says it's a big problem now because no-one has either the money or the inclination to maintain them.

The other snap I took shows what seems to be a large Christian church, a cathedral even.  This interested me because historically Christians had a raw deal in Japan, like being tortured and put to death over a period of about 280 years.  A stone's throw from where I have my lessons there's a catholic church associated with a feudal lord who refused to renounce his Christian faith some time in the 17th century.  He's regarded as a martyr and was beatified 2017.  There's a lovely stained glass window featuring him which I must get around to photographing. 

Getting back to this building I saw from the train.

I asked Ishimura (teacher) about it.  He was intrigued and did a bit of googling.  It turns out to be a fake.  It's described as a Gothic Cathedral Theme Park and is a venue for weddings.  There's a bridal fair on there at the moment.   

I'll get round to talking about Hiroshima next time but I'm now ready for bed.

 

Readers may remember that thanks to a Christmas present from Ewan I have been for two years an adopter of the Japanese macaques at the Highland Wildlife Park.  Clearly I had to visit the originals in Japan.  These are the animals that bathe in a hot pool just like their human counterparts.  Originally it was the same pool apparently but as I overheard one visitor say "I don't want monkey shit in my bath water", so they built a separate pool for the monkeys.  It's really only in cold weather that they bathe and even though there was some sleet while I was there only one animal ventured into the water.

To visit the park I went to Nagano for the weekend.  It was pouring rain and getting dark when I arrived.  I'd booked a hotel that was cheap and near the station but was damned if I could find it.  I staggered about the streets for a while wiping the rain from my eyes and my phone screen and eventually stuck my head into a restaurant and asked a waitress where the hotel was.  She pulled a phone out of her pocket, looked it up and asked me to wait.  She ran to the back of the restaurant, came back with an umbrella and proceeded to lead me through the streets.  Now it wasn't terribly far but it was across a couple of roads and round a corner or two so I class that as ginormous kindness to a stranger.  Not just from her but from the boss who let her leave her job to do it.

On the Saturday morning I joined a small group for a day tour that included visiting the monkeys.  First we went to the amazing Zenkoji Temple.  The place was packed with tourists and I guess there were a few worshippers thrown in.  It's very beautiful and colourful.

Approaching the main temple, hat concealing guide

Monks arriving for some ceremony or other

Don't know who these chaps are but must be important

After the temple visit we went off to lunch and here's my meal.

Beautifully presented as seems always to be the case.  The thing that looks suspiciously like a toffee apple is a small ladle used to take liquid from the white paper bowl in which meat and vegetables are cooking.  All very tasty.

Lunch over we travelled for about an hour to get to our take off point.  From there we walked through a forest for half an hour or so till we came to the park.  The monkeys, of which there were zillions, completely ignored the visitors, even brushing against us as they went about their business.  That consisted 99.9% of the time in scrabbling about for food.  Just like Scotland's troop they had a penchant for keeping their heads down and their backs to those of us trying to take pictures but I got quite a few.

The following day I headed out of town.  Nagano is surrounded by mountains, the highest of which is about 2,300 metres.  It hosted the winter olympics in 1998 and as will undoubtedly be the case in 2026 at Milan/Cortina (which I hope to attend) events like ice hockey were held in town and the skiing in the mountains.

I saw a party of skiers arrive in Nagano when I did and subsequently saw the odd person carrying a snowboard so the season was not quite over but these people must have gone pretty high up given what I saw or didn't see.   The Hakuba express bus lists Iwatake Mountain Resort amongst its stops.  That sounded just the place where I could potter about, have lunch and then catch the bus back to town.

The best laid plans and all that.  The journey there was lovely; pretty countryside, Japan's longest river, glimpses of snow-covered peaks.  But the resort!  Deserted.  Not a soul in sight.

No snow, not open for business

So I set off downhill and had a splendid walk for about an hour to Hakuba station.  I could have done it in much less time but I was in no hurry and took quite a few pictures.  It's not that easy to get good landscape pictures because the place is festooned with electricity cables, distribution being all above ground.  But here's a couple of shots.

From Hakuba station there are trains to various places but not to Nagano so I had to wait for a bus.  I used  the wait to have something to eat in a tiny restaurant.  It was a sort of vegetable fritter cake with noodles in a broth.  Totally delicious.  I've forgotten what it was called but my Japanese teacher decried that as incorrect.  I've now also forgotten what he declared it should have been called.

A last word about Nagano.  I was struck by the legend on the side of the buses and even more so by

the tune that is played when the zebra crossing lights turn to green.  

The arrivals area in Tokyo airport was a sea of chaos.  As we made our way towards passport control etc there were a number of young people waving placards at the stream of arriving passengers and calling out instructions.  The placards bore red and blue images and the instructions were to follow the “fast track route” or not.  On one of the Japanese tourism/government sites you can fill in various forms and upload documents which allegedly results in a set of QR codes being sent to your phone and which will speed you through arrivals.  I’d tried that before I left but couldn’t get it to do anything useful for me.

So I became part of the melee that constituted the non fast track crowd, and it really was a crowd.  I joined a group around a young Japanese girl who was holding up a transparent plastic folder of the type you stick into an A4 ring binder.  It was a trifle crumpled but you could see there was a sheet of paper inside that bore a QR code.  She urged us to aim our phones at this code.  If you can imagine half a dozen fractious tourists waving their smart phones at this wee girl’s upheld arm amidst a crowd of tens if not hundreds of people, because she was not the only person charged with this task.

Unsurprisingly my phone did nothing.  So I was ushered /dragged through the crowd to a little laptop where the girl and I filled in a form of vital information – my name etc.  All of these readily available from my machine readable passport and from the landing card I had filled in on the plane but let’s pass on.  Having filled in the form a button was clicked and a sheet of paper issued from an adjacent printer bearing a QR code.

I was then directed to a line of desks where the QR code sheet was processed in some way and I presented my PCR report.  No question of vaccination certificates or apps thank God.  The PCR reigned supreme.  £65 well spent.

Next it was passport control where photos and fingerprints were taken.  Just as in Miami the camera needed a few attempts to get my likeness.  I was relieved of my landing card, my passport was swiped and stamped and I was through to the baggage hall.

My bag appeared promptly and I headed for customs.  My heart sank when I saw a number of people whose luggage was in a state of undress but the man took my passport and the customs declaration I’d filled in on the plane, glanced at them, handed the passport back, smiled at me and said “finished”.

Next it was domestic transfers where they tore up the boarding card I’d been given in Edinburgh and gave me a new one. I was told to take the shuttle to terminal 1 which I did.  It was a long way.  The boarding card said Gate 21.  I couldn’t see any signs with gate numbers so I asked one of the various official looking fellows who directed me upstairs.  Here there was a long corridor.  It appeared to be split into sections A to G and a bank of numbers above those sections I assumed were the gate numbers.  21 was at the rightmost end of this bank so I set off for the far end of the corridor and headed through the security control.  But I was turned back.  Here the airport does not provide the security screening.  Each airline does its own.  So I had to go back to an earlier section, go through their security control, turn right and head again for gate 21 at the far end of the corridor.  

It was straightforward thereafter.  Flight to Komatsu, airport bus to Kanazawa.  Queuing for a taxi I chuckled at the funny accents of a couple of French Canadians in the queue.  Who’d you think you are Neill?  Modern taxi drivers the world over seem to have abandoned learning the names and locations of hotels in favour of keying them into a GPS system.  He got me there.  The guides tell you there is no need to tip taxi drivers in Japan.  Some suggest it’s likely to be taken as an insult.  Maybe, but this chap didn’t raise any objection when I told him to keep the change.

The hotel was fine.  Lots of stuff you wouldn’t expect to find in a cheap hotel room in the UK.  An actual alarm clock, slippers, a shoehorn and polishing cloths, a multi connection phone charger, a LAN cable and a garment which may have been a dressing gown or a sleeping coat.

Given that I hadn’t had much sleep for a couple of nights I didn’t stay up too late and didn’t get up too early on the Friday.  I had a good wander around town, took lots of picture, had a pleasant lunch of what I think was minced raw tuna and rice. I washed it down with a nice Japanese draught beer.  I was still pretty tired in the evening so I didn’t go out.

I’d been in touch with my AirB&B host about getting into the apartment on the Saturday.  We agreed he’d pick me up about 12 so I had a leisurely breakfast and sat in a park enjoying the sunshine till then.

Keita is a really nice guy whose broken English is a great deal better than my broken Japanese.  The apartment is pristine.  It’s furnished in Japanese style.  Those chairs without legs are a challenge.  The floor level bed is not so bad though the work of getting up confirms my decision to give up skiing on the basis that when I fell over (as one does) it would take a miracle to get me upright again.

He's taken pity on me since and added a western style chair and a small worktable of a reasonable height.  

On Saturday night I walked up to Kenrokuen Gardens, deemed one of the three finest gardens in Japan, which in honour of the season was lit up and open late into the evening.  It was absolutely packed with enthusiastic cheerful crowds.  Various food stalls lined the entrance road and were doing roaring business.  The castle grounds opposite were also open and the castle was floodlit.  All very lovely.

Keita took me out with a couple of his friends on Sunday for a picnic and some cherry blossom viewing.  We went to Noto, a town not far away where he comes from.  It was an interesting day with a drive along a beach and a visit to a place where a local building company had developed a little cherry tree park.

On the way back we drove along a 10 kilometre stretch of road bordered on both sides by cherry trees in full bloom.  

On Monday I started my language classes.  It's hard work and a trifle overwhelming at the moment but I'm sure it will be worth it.  It's a very pleasant 20 minute walk from the apartment to the class between the gardens and the castle and through a large park.  Serendipity of course.

I haven't done very much other than wander about and try to get a feel for the place and the people.  There are lots of museums and historic whatsits to investigate and I'll do my best to fit some of them in and report here.
 

Helsinki airport, snow on the ground and in the distance.  Cold but cosy enough inside.

Searching iPlayer for something to watch on the tele on Saturday evening I came across "This is going to hurt".  I had a vague recollection that the book had been well received so I clicked on it.  I didn't realise it was a seven part series but it was super and kept me up till after British Summer Time had rolled in.  Very funny with a satisfying leaven of tragedy and schmaltz.

My own recent medical exposures have had their amusing side.  I'm writing this en route to Japan which is very hot on drug control, even innocent prescription drugs like the stuff I take.  To enter Japan with prescription drugs you need an import licence if you want to take more than one month's supply and even then there are various restrictions.  No Vick's inhaler for example.  You just have to put up with a blocked nose.

Both the Japanese tourist guide and the British Foreign Office say you should carry with you a copy of your prescription and a letter from your doctor saying why you have been prescribed these medicines and the drugs themselves must be in their original wrapping.

So I popped into my surgery on Monday 6th March and explained my requirements to the receptionist.  She ran off a copy of  my prescription and told me I'd have to put the request for a letter in writing.  She gave me a sheet of paper and I wrote the letter.  This would be dealt with at the practice meeting on the coming Thursday I was told.  That was visit 1.

A week later, Monday 13th.  I went in to be told that unfortunately due to some staff sickness the matter had not been dealt with but would undoubtedly feature at the next meeting.  That was visit 2.

Monday 20th I'm back again.  No letter.  No explanation.  This Thursday for sure.  I gently explained that there was only that Thursday left before my departure for Japan so there was a degree of urgency. That was visit 3.

When I got home I got a text asking me to ring the surgery about a letter.  I dialed the number. The answering system told me first that if I were dying I should ring off and try 999.  I was also asked to think about whether a pharmasist or other such professional might not be more appropriate for my circumstances. Then there was the message about recording for training purposes and the reminder that staff should be treated with respect.  Was there a veiled threat that if they weren't then the sh*t would be beaten out of me or is that my overactive imagination.

Next we got down to my options.  If my call is about X then press 1 etc until "If you are ringing about a non NHS letter press 6".  That's me so I hit the key.  The system advised me that I should put my request in writing and give two weeks notice. Then it rang off.

I started again, skipped over option 6, hit the 7 and at last got a human being.  I don't know who she was but I repeated my tale.  "You'll have to pay."  "I realise that."  It seems they want the  dosh up front.  I'm offered the choice of paying into their bank online or in cash at the surgery.  I say that I live only five minutes away and will pop round there and then with the cash.  It's £45. I proffer £50.  They have no change.  I say "keep the change, if I can't get into Japan much more than that will have gone down the swanee.  Thus ended visit 4.

Monday 27th.  Two days to lift-off.  "It's with the doctor."  But not with me I point out and time is short. A reminder is despatched electronically to the doc.  I go home.  Visit 5 is over.

Tuesday 28th.  It's still with the doctor.  "Have I paid?"  "Yes"  "I can't see it on the system." Now unusually precient, in running over in my head what could go wrong I had envisaged this sort of scenario so not only had I kept the receipt I had it with me.  "I'll wait" I said.  A low key conversation between receptionist and doctor shortly afterwards when he was free from a consultation.  I caught my name and sensed that she was telling him that I was clearly pissed off but manfully controlling my impulse to wreak havok.  "No point in waiting, he'll definitely have it by the end of the day."  That's 6 o'clock and we agree I'll come back at 5.30.  Thus ends visit  6.

Half past five on the dot I am there.  We exchange smiles and chit chat.  Time passes. More smiles.  At five to six Sam, for that is the doctor's name, enters reception.  I remember him from the years before Covid when surgery visits could be made at what seems now like a moment's notice.  He's wearing those lovely blue scrubs from "This is going to hurt."  He hands her a letter.  She passes it to me.  Visit 7 is topped out with success.

The other little medical story is about Covid.  Japan is still not quite done with restrictions.  The fully vaccinated can enter freely.  I've had five jabs so that is surely me.  But!  To prove this fully vaccinated status you are asked to present a certificate showing three vaccinations using one of a range of acceptable vaccines.  Now NHS Scotland provides a certificate saying you've had X but showing details of only the last two.  The app on my phone has details of all five but it's not a certificate is it?

I decide to take the unvaccinated route, a negative PCR test taken no more than 72 hours before departure. Booked and paid for (what's £65 these days) online on Sunday, up to Frederick Street on Monday, throat and nose swabbed, test result received a few hours later and uploaded during online check-in on Tuesday.

I should board the Tokyo flight in about an hour, all ready to sail through Japanese immigration - deo volente. 

The RSA's "New Contemporaries" gives full rein to the skills and extraordinary imagination of the young artists coming out of Scotland's art schools.  It's breathtaking in its range and variety.

When I saw this particular work I asked myself why I'd never thought of doing something with the supermarket trolleys and traffic cones that are occasionally dumped in Dicksonfield other than getting rid of them.

I went to the exhibition by accident in a sense.  I set out to get a bus to Cramond to have a nice healthy walk up the river Almond and lunch at what used to be the Cramond Brig Hotel but is now a chain steak house.  But when I got to Princes St I found I'd have to wait nearly half an hour for a bus, something I can't abide so I went into the RSA and afterwards walked down to Piggs in the Canongate where I had quite a tasty tapas or three and a very satisfying tinto or two then tottered home.  So I did get a walk.

The Grads held an AGM this month which I attended only to find that I wasn't actually a paid-up member, a situation I have since rectified.  There was a series of party pieces after the business bit which was fun.  A short play that explored why Godot didn't turn up was I thought super.  It's an obvious question I'd never asked myself.  Martin Foreman's answer was satisfyingly Beckettian in style.

The NGS billed a talk entitled Photography in Japan and these being two of my current interests I had to go.  Paradoxically photography in Japan was at one and the same time central and peripheral to the subject matter.  It was really about Scottish painters Edward Atkinson Hornel and Rose Hill Burton, the visionary urban planner Patrick Geddes and the social networks they moved in during the late 19th century.  

Hornel visited Japan and based much of his painting on photographs taken there either by himself or Japanese photographers including one of the most prolific amongst them, Ogawa Kazumasa who visited Hornel in Scotland.  Hornel's large collection of those photographs are housed in Broughton House in Kirkcudbright where he lived.

Rose's brother William K Burton was an engineer working in Japan. He was a keen amateur photographer, one of the founding members of the Photographic Society of Japan and its first secretary.   Rose visited him there and on her return to Scotland used photographs taken there as models for her paintings and for the murals that she was commissioned to paint for Patrick Geddes's flat in Ramsay Gardens.

The talk was given by Antonia Laurence Allen from the National Trust for Scotland which looks after both Hornel's house and Geddes' flat.

I consumed only a little of the glass of wine to which I was entitled after the talk because I had to get to the Usher Hall.  Frankly it wasn't tasty enough to detain me.

The SCO were playing Handel and I went because I really enjoy his large scale choral works.  The concert had a royal focus.  It opened and closed with anthems written for the coronation of George II, Zadoc the Priest,  and The King Shall Rejoice.  Both are stonkingly rousing pieces that I enjoyed hearing.  No doubt we'll hear Zadoc when Charles III is crowned since it's been played at every coronation since 1727.

In between we had some Water Music and Music for the Royal Fireworks, neither of which involved the choir and Ode for the Birthday of Queen Anne which did.  The latter also involved three soloists and I thought it was terrific.  The interplay between the counter-tenor and a solo trumpet was just liquid gold.  Magic.

Magic too was Radio Scotland's Jazz Nights on Sunday.  Unfortunately that was its last edition since BBC Scotland despite petitions from the public and remonstrances from eminent musicians have axed the show.  On Sunday we heard music from four bright young Scottish players.  Entire tracks from Fergus McCready, Rachel Duns and Matt Carmichael and a trombone flourish from Anoushka Nanguy on tour with Soweto Kinch in Australia.  Radio Scotland offered them and others a large public platform that could be a springboard for career development.  Where can that come from now?

 

It's taken just under 59 years but I've at last got around to walking across the Forth Road Bridge.  From the east walkway you get great views towards the railbridge and further downriver and if the walkway on the west side were open you'd get great views upriver, but it isn't.  From the north end of the bridge though I did get quite decent views of all three bridges.

I've been cajoled into rejoining the Dicksonfield Owners and Residents Association committee with no specific responsibility except to help chair meetings because our chairman is a bit deaf.  I've successfully carried out that task once so far and pinned minutes onto noticeboards, minutes that I'm heartily glad I didn't have to write as I would have done in my previous incarnation.  

There was a fascinating talk at the National Gallery about its activities during WWII.  They had lots of quite avant-garde exhibitions under the leadership of Stanley Cursiter, but it seems that the chap who took over after the war was of a much more conservative disposition and blunted their cutting edge.

Straight from the National Gallery I went down to Leith Arches to see the off-line continuation of Claire's frisson.  This bar is a great venue for a play like this about people meeting friends and potential friends.  The playing was excellent and well deserved the four stars that Joyce Macmillan gave it in The Scotsman.  Joyce is essentially our arbiter of what's good and what's bad in theatre in Scotland so Claire was naturally very happy.  All Edinburgh Theatre gave it a good write-up as well.

Having said what I have said about Joyce I feel I have to bow to her judgement of You Bury Me at The Lyceum.  Four stars and then five from All Edinburgh Theatre.  Their review says inter alia "A looming danger – that the characters and their storylines could come across as formulaic, almost soap opera-ish – is prevented by the verve and commitment of the cast."

It wasn't prevented for me I'm afraid.  I thought it was cliche ridden and  while I agree with Joyce that young Egyptians "had to watch the ecstatic high hopes of February 2011 collapse into a military regime far more repressive than anything they had known before" I did not feel that tragedy came over to me in this production.  My insensitivity I guess.

I've been to two contrasting musical events.  The SCO under the engaging Pekka Kuusisto played Sibelious's 5th Symphony which draws significantly on Finnish folk music. Appalachian folk music featured much more directly with the guitar and banjo playing of the American singer/songwriter Sam Amidon within an orchestral setting.  How different was The Buddy Holly Story.  Poor Buddy had very few years of fame and glory before he was killed in an air accident aged 22.  But those years happened to be during my teens when I paid some degree of attention to pop music which I don't do today, and it was great to hear songs that I remember pretty well.

I should have said three musical events because I spent another enjoyable saxophone weekend at The Burn.

Now that I remember it's four events.  Elim Chan's farewell appearance as principal guest conductor (whatever that is) with the RSNO.  Not quite as waif like as when she first appeared with them but still a diminutive figure whose command of a large orchestra continues to impress.  Pity about the skirt though.  The programme: Tchaikovsky's 5th Symphony, a satisfyingly rousing crash bang wallop of a piece, one of Mozart's many concertos and a piece by Anna Clyne called The Midnight Hour.  As befits its title this was dark and ominous.  I enjoyed it very much. 

I took a walk through the Dean village to Stockbridge after a photography class session at St Mary's in Palmerston Place.  There's some modern development going on on the road down from the Belford Bridge but since the place is a bit of a hodge-podge of styles already I expect it will merge in happily.

Merging in happily would be one way of describing some of Bernat Klein's choices of colour combinations in his textiles.  The musuem has been holding a small exhibition of his work celebrating the 100th anniversary of his birth.  All his work to my mind is beautiful and the exhibition does it justice.  The museum itself is beautiful (nice coffee too).  I should go more often.

I should also get into the habit of going to the National Galleries more often now that Modern Two has reopened and their new galleries displaying Scottish art are promised for this summer.  Coupled with the trams running on Leith Walk this will be a summer to remember.  

Scottish art was the subject of a talk I went to at the NGS the other week.  Lachlan Goudie, no mean artist himself, ran through centuries of our art in his lively and engaging style.  I didn't buy his book though, despite the event's 15% discount.

In the dramatic arts I've enjoyed Frisson online, Happy Valley on TV and Macbeth (an undoing) on stage.  Frisson is Claire's most recent venture into play-writing.  It's in two parts, the first online which I've seen and enjoyed and the second in real life in a bar which I've yet to see.  All Edinburgh Theatre gave it a sympathetic review.  I understand others were not so enamoured but I thoroughly enjoyed it.

I had heard ecstatic noise about Happy Valley but had seen none of it so determined to remedy that via iPlayer.  I think it was one of the best police dramas I've seen.  It kept me up late on a couple of occasions when I couldn't bear to go to bed without knowing what came next.  The fact that it was set in an area that I have some acquaintance with added interest.

Macbeth is undone in Shakespeare's play and he comes out dead in this version as well but the undoing in the title refers more to how Zinnie Harris has picked the play apart and put it together again with, among many other changes, Lady Macbeth taking over.  To the extent that courtiers begin to address her as "king".  I wasn't altogether convinced that much of the reworking added to the play but I thought the production was super if a bit long.  Most reviews that I've read liked it but The Guardian/Observer managed to give it four stars from Mark Fisher but only two from Clare Brennan. Other voices worth hearing speak here and here.  There are lots more if you can be bothered to look for them.

Georgia Cecile appeared with the SNJO and showed us what a powerful and expressive singer she is.  Loved the voice but didn't care for the dress said one friend. I agreed.  Another would have liked to hear how she handled some standards rather than just her own songs.  I agreed.  The band were great as usual and although the focus was obviously on Georgia there were some great solos.  I especially enjoyed the pairing of Tommy Smith and Helena Kay. 

Both of them are great jazz saxophonists and it was a treat to have a great classical saxophonist at the Usher Hall with the RSNO.  Jess Gillam played the Glazunov Saxophone Concerto and Milhaud's Scaramouche.  The other orchestral works on the programme made use of saxophones.  They were An American in Paris by Gershwin and Pictures at an Exhibition in Ravel's orchestration of Mussorgsky.

Gershwin's piece features street noises including motor car's hooting but the concert began with three percussionists playing actual car horns, one for each hand and one for each foot.  The two minute piece is a prelude to an opera by Ligeti and was absolutely brilliant fun. I imagine the whole opera is.

Great fun also was the addition of real pictures to Pictures at an Exhibition.  The painter James Mayhew was on stage with an easel and paints. He worked while the orchestra played and his activity was projected onto a large screen above the organ console.  His paintings illustrated the sections of the work echoing the paintings by Hartmann that inspired the music in the first place.  You can argue about whether this added to the pleasure gained from listening to the music or was just a distracting gimmick.  The jury's probably out on that one.

Peaky Blinders is another TV show I've been aware of and aware of its popularity but ignorant of its content so when Ballet Rambert turned it into a dance show I thought I'd check it out.  Claire is my usual dance show companion so we met for something to eat and then trundled into the Festival Theatre burdened by a couple of bicycle paniers (she was), found that the promise of an open cloakroom was false, fought our way through the crowds of interval drink orderers only to be turned away as service stopped and the first act bell sounded.  Now we'd got round pretty late to deciding to go and the place was well booked out when we did so we were up in the Gods.  We staggered down steep steps and thanks to me went the wrong way along our destination row.  To avoid disturbing the punters we went up and over and down more steps, all the time with those paniers, only to find we were in a cul-de-sac.  We could see our seats a few rows below but I didn't fancy our chances of getting to them before the curtain rose so we plonked ourselves down where we were.

The first half of the show was excellent in terms of music, movement, lighting and so on.  I thought I could follow a storyline from first world war horror through heavy industrial working conditions to fairground roustabouting, then racecourse gambling, confrontations between gangs and finally a romeo and juliet wedding that ended tragically as the juliet was shot dead.

I've still no idea if I followed the story correctly or not but we went off to the bar with our paniers, got some drinks and headed back in to get to our proper seats.  We found them amongst a certain amount of hilarity and they were better positioned but mini disaster struck when my wine was upset.  No tragedy but some of it fell on the jacket of a young woman in the row in front.  She and her mum were not happy, quite miffed in fact.  The proffering of apologies and cash to get it cleaned etc were huffily turned down.  As far as I could tell it was not a garment that would have suffered much from a dollop of white wine.  High steet rather than haute couture but hey.

Now the second half is where I couldn't work out what was happening.  There was a very good sequence where the cast pranced around in their undies.  Why?  I haven't a clue. There was a lot of fighting.  Why?  Vengeance being sought for the bride killing perhaps.  It was brilliant stuff, terribly well choreographed but I couldn't tell who was fighting who and it went on just too long.

Eventually it finished.  It was a great show well up to Rambert's high standards but the Peaky Blinders mystery remains unsolved. 

As I said we were a bit behind schedule getting tickets for this show but I'm well ahead of the game for next year's Olympics.  I've booked three days watching the sailing in Marseille.  It's standing room in the marina at only 24 euros a pop.  Hopefully they'll have a big screen or two otherwise I won't see much of what's happening on the water but I'm looking forward to the buzz.

These strangely dressed people are attendees at the Edinburgh Sci-Fi Convention.  I was there with the Dunedin Wind Band playing a selection of appropriate music for their entertainment early on a Saturday morning.  We players were then free to wander and wonder.  I'm not au fait with super heroes and space adventures and the world of Tolkien so 99% of the fancy dress and the literature and paraphernalia there assembled meant nothing to me.  But it was colourful and fun.

That's not quite my only outing over the last few weeks but I haven't done too much outside the house.  I went to an excellent SCO concert.  They played Mozart's flute concerto featuring the orchestra's own principal flute, Andre Cebrian, who then, accompanied by a handful of strings, gave a beautiful encore which as is often the case I enjoyed rather more than the  orchestral piece.  Everything else was great.  More Mozart, from Idomeneo.  Some Debussy and Stravinsky's cheerful Danses Concertantes.

With the photography group I went to St Giles and snapped around here and there trying to be arty.  Here's one of my efforts which may end up on a wall.

The library across the road now shows films. On Wednesdays they show mainstream stuff and I think once a month on Saturdays more recherché films chosen by someone who worked at the ill-fated Filmhouse.   I went over to see one of Godard's best regarded films, Pierrot Le Fou.  I rather enjoyed it despite the Nelson Hall's pillars obscuring my view a lot of the time.  I enjoyed it more than Bresson's 1959 film Pickpocket which I watched at home through my BFI subscription. But then although Pierrot deals with misfits and obsession as does Pickpocket it does so with a bit more humour.  Not always intentionally perhaps.

I don't think there was any humour at all in Christopher Nolan's Dunkirk which I missed when it was in cinemas but have now seen on TV.  Reading the Guardian's review I'm almost tempted to pretend that I didn't find it a long watch.  

More to my taste was Fortunes of War, a 1987 TV series that popped up on BBC4.  I'm not sure how much if any of it I'd seen when it first ran but I do remember reading The Balkan Trilogy which together with The Levant Trilogy are the books on which the mini series is based.  You could see the show as slightly zany wartime adventures but it's more an exploration of human relationships in a time of stress.  Kenneth Branagh is superb as the eternally busy English Lit teacher who devotes more time and care to sundry others than to his recently aquired wife.  As his wife Emma Thompson grapples with his loving neglect and tries to find space to express her own needs and wishes.  She's brilliant as are all the actors who portray the fascinating assortment of characters who people the story.

Other old material that I certainly hadn't seen before but which has been filling the gaps between commercial breaks on the likes of ITV3 and Drama has held me captive for several weeks.  Scott and Bailey are a pair of all action lady detectives in Manchester who despite their messy private lives solve a murder or two every week surrounded by a cast of fascinating goodies and baddies played by terrific actors.  George Gently on the other hand is closer to Dixon of Dock Green but with a harder edge as, accompanied by his ambitious and sometimes perceptive sergeant, he sorts out the villians of 1960s Northumberland.  I recorded these shows and watched them with remote poised to shoot through the comercials at speed trying not to overshoot.

A newer cops and robbers series I've binge-watched is The Gold, the story of the hunt for the Brinks Mat bullion robbers.  Again great characters both crooks and cops kept me hooked till the early hours.

Thanks to the BFI I renewed my aquaintance with The Handmaiden, a beautifully shot and performed film that panders to my current interest in things Japanese although it's Korean made and from a Welsh novel set in Victorian Britain.  I learnt that latter fact from Wikipedia which is the source of much of my knowledge these days.  Things Japanese included the fictionalised biography of Thomas Blake Glover by Alan Spence.  Glover for those who don't know was an Aberdonian loon who made it big in Japan in the 19th century.  Wikipedia tells you all you need to know about him.

The Boy With Two Hearts is a cleverly designed and adroitly performed play that tells the tale of a family's flight from Afghanistan to Wales after the mother's brave stand against Taliban rule.  It's a heart-rending story and the fact that it's true adds even more power to the piece.  It's available on NT at Home.  If you do watch it I'd encourage you to watch the accompanying short chat between the two boys from the family.  They wrote the book that the play is made from.

The trams come even closer as Leith Walk is opened to traffic for its entire length in both directions.  Bus heaven restored.

For a while my camera had been giving me problems so that I was forever having to switch it off and on again, by which time the proposed subject had often moved on.  Enquiry established that a repair would cost me pretty well as much as the camera cost to buy so I screwed my courage to the sticking point and bought a new one.  New to me that is and a lens, also new to me.  It's the first time I've owned a replaceable lens camera and I can see that that feature could develop into being an expensive pain in the neck.

The still life above is the second picture I took with it.  The first is even less interesting.

With luck the photography course I'm doing this term will help build on what I learnt last term. I'd actually intended to do a course on the use of Photoshop but not enough people signed up so it was cancelled.  Rather than do nothing photographic I decided to do something similar to what I did last term.  

Music has been good so far this year.  

The Dunedin band got going again and we're on show at the Edinburgh Sci-Fi Con in February with a selection of tunes deemed appropriate to the genre.

I enjoyed a Big Blaw Sunday afternoon session.  I heard the RSNO's Viennese New Year concert well after New Year but who cares.  They were resplendent in their white jackets.  The men that is.  It's their summer outfit really but why not bring a bit of summer into Musselburgh in January.  The concert was in The Brunton and we had an excellent meal in The Gurkha  across the road.  Very good food and swift, impeccably polite and friendly service.  

I heard the RSNO again in their more regular setting of the Usher Hall where they played a brand new piece by a young Scottish composer, Lisa Robertson, celebrating the eagles of her home by the Sound of Mull.  Then we had Beethoven's 5th Piano Concerto with barnstorming encore (no idea what it was) and Brahms's 4th Symphony.  All super.

The SCO meanwhile featured Francois Leleux as conductor and oboist.  The orchestra played a symphony by Louise Farrenc, a name unknown to me but look her up - impressive. Then some of Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words arranged for oboe.  That was absolutely lovely. Then his Hebrides overture and finally Schubert's 4th Symphony.  All very nice but the oboe arrangement made it for me.

Tommy Smith brought his youth orchestra to the Roxy for an afternoon of really good jazz.  They're a talented bunch.  The personnel changes over time as the name implies but there seems to be no shortage of fresh talent as older members move on, many of them to become professional players.  Taking his first steps as a gigging musician and playing tenor for Tommy that afternoon was Sean Megaw, a young man I've bumped into from time to time, first when he played with the Edinburgh Schools jazz band and later at the Napier Summer Jazz School.  He has just graduated from the RCS and is a wonderful player.  Also wonderful that afternoon was a singer called Laura something or other.  I'm sure we'll see a lot more of her.

On Monday I thought all my Christmases had arrived at once when not only did the painters turn up to redecorate the common parts of my block with the carpet fitters promised on their heels but roofers were seen to climb the scaffolding that has languished unconquered against the building for six or seven weeks.  Alas they banged about briefly, and I hope productively, then vanished never to be seen since.  Please come back.

I've long thought that a gap existed in my reading where Samuel Pepys and his diaries should be.  So I borrowed The Shorter Pepys from the library.  It's brick sized while the complete Pepys is house sized.  But the preface assured me that it was not "the best of Pepys".  After struggling to enjoy the book for a while I wished it had been.  So back to the library it went and the gap is unplugged.

One thing I learnt in my brief encounter was that Pepys did a lot of dining and drinking which warmed me to him.  I'm sure I do less of both but I have eaten a couple of times recently.  I had lunch with Siobhan in the former public toilet at Canonmills now known as the Tollhouse.  It was an enjoyable and sociable lunch which lasted a while but I wasn't all that impressed by the food.  Not that it was bad, maybe it was just the very tough cabbage leaves in which my main course was wrapped that soured my enjoyment.  At Beirut on the other hand where I ate with Claire before going to The Studio to see this dance and multimedia show the grub was great.   

The show was billed as a take on the Hitchcock film Vertigo. I read Wikipedia's description of Vertigo when I went home but it would have been much better had I read it beforehand.  The show was, as the review says clever but Claire reckoned the show fell short on emotional engagement for her.  For me likewise.  Maybe it wasn't intended to move us.  Maybe that's a feature of the film as well.  I'll have to check that out some time.

For the last Japanese class of the term we had to write up a recipe following the standard "Japanese recipe speak" and provide a picture of the dish.  I decided to write up a soup recipe and that I might as well make the soup and provide pictures of the various stages.  This is stage one, assembling the ingredients.

The Dunedin concert went quite well.  It was followed by some wine and nibbles in the church hall then more wine and nibbles at Siobhan's.  The following day found me having wine and nibbles at Claire's while watching the Strictly Come Dancing final.  I've seen bits of the show from time to time but this was the first time I've watched it in its almost entirety.  (Thanks to bus chaos I arrived a wee while after it started.)  I won't be holding my breath for the next series to get going but it would be churlish not to express my admiration for the effort and skill deployed by the contestants.  And it was Scotland's night. The winner by public acclaim was wildlife cameraman Hamza Yassim whose home is Ardnamurchan.

The next day I set off for The Bahamas.  From Edinburgh I flew to London and on to Miami where I spent the night.  A deal of tedium was involved in the journey but no particular difficulties arose.  The following morning I went back to the airport which was doing its best to celebrate the season with scenes like this

and met up with Ewan for the short flight to North Eleuthera.

It was a joy to land at an airport that brought back memories of Kitwe.  The terminal building was a bit grander. Hard to believe from the picture perhaps.  The principal feature that the two airports share is  that from leaving the aircraft you can get to the perimeter fence in a dozen paces and inside the terminal there are not miles of corridors and stairs and little trains and so on and so on.

We had to queue for a while since the small number of immigration and customs staff were busy dealing with an outgoing flight.  When we did get in I discovered much to the disappointment of the guy who hoped to earn a buck from carrying it ten yards from the luggage trolley to the customs bench that my luggage had not arrived.  I gave all the details to the very friendly American Airlines rep and then settled down with a coke on a cafe verandah from where I took this picture of the landward side of the terminal to wait for Fiona and Connor who were coming in from Nassau a little later.

They arrived safely with their luggage on a little plane that had been a bit cramped and whose crew had handled things a bit more casually than is the rule in major airlines.

Then we piled into a taxi and drove a few miles to a place called Gene's Dock to catch the little ferry to Spanish Wells where in a golf cart and a backie we made the short trip to this lovely house

Some of us were a bit tired after the jouney

Spanish Wells is a small place, population around 1500, with some pleasant beaches, pretty much deserted while we were there, a couple of supermarkets, a few eateries and not much more.  The mainland which is how Eleuthera is referred to by the locals is very long and thin.  We had a car for a couple of days but didn't want to spend all day in it so we only explored the northern section including going to Harbour Island.  According to our waitress at lunch there it's an island that never sleeps. A description reinforced by the speedboat style ferry that took as there.  That was certainly not true of St George's Cay on which Spanish Wells sits nor of what we saw of the mainland.  There are not too many sights to see.   So it was a quiet holiday with mixed weather.  We caught a bit of cold wind and drizzle from the weather system that brought so much chaos to the US and Connor's enjoyment was marred by a dose of flu which lasted up until the last couple of days.  Here are a few pics

The Sandbar Restaurant

Chrismas Decorations with Talking Santa

Preacher's Cave, used for services for 100 years in 17th/18th century

Beach at the bottom of our street

Ewan and the restaurant across the street

Windswept palm

Pool to plunge in.  We didn't.

Another place we didn't plunge into

Signpost to other islands

On Harbour Island beach

Boarding the Ferry to Spanish Wells

Ferry passengers

I could put in more but you get the idea.

The journey home was a bit faster than the journey out thanks to the jetstream and it was also a little more eventful.  At immigration in Miami I presented my passport expecting to be waved through but after three attempts to take my photograph unsuccessfully and after lots of staring at screens and incessant keying at a terminal the man in the booth said "stand there an agent will be with you shortly".

And indeed another immigration guy strode up grabbed my passport, which now had an orange paper stuck in it, from agent number one. He told me to stand against a wall and disappeared to return shortly trailing another passenger with him.  He motioned for me to follow.  Three steps later he threw open a door and barked "wait in there".   

Heart in mouth I asked "What's the problem?"  Astounded at my temerity he glared and said "You're due an inspection."  That meant nothing to me of course.  Could he mean a strip search I wondered. 

There were two or three dozen people sitting around and a row of open cubicles from behind which voices emanated.  I couldn't see the agents who generally called out names for people to present themselves.  A big notice forbade photography, eating and the use of phones.  Ewan had gone through some fast track residents channel so wasn't aware of my situation and I didn't want to blot my copybook by making a phone call but eventually managed to surreptitiously get a text out.  At one point an airline employee went round asking who was an American Airlines passenger.  I stuck my hand up.  He scanned my Miami-London boarding card, told me that AA now knew where I was and assured me that I didn't need to collect my luggage.  I had no intention of doing so.  It was checked through to Edinburgh.

Eventually a garbled version of my name was called out with a cubicle number.  I went up.  My passport was in the air on the end of an arm.  I still couldn't see the person but the voice declared "You're good to go buddie"or maybe it was "brother".  I made my  way to the exit where there was yet another check on my passport.  This time the agent asked about my travel and whether I was travelling alone. That he suggested was why I was temporarily detained.  Still doesn't make sense to me.

Anyway I caught the flight, watched quite a good film (Where the Crawdads Sing) , was served a frankly tasteless meal which I subsequently slated in the review BA asked for.  We hit London on time.   The Edinburgh flight left punctually and I got home about midday.

What have I done since then?  Nothing worth recording except Phil's succulent, melt in the mouth stew with dumplings for lunch on New Year's Day and his scrumptious mackerel pâté served on Naomi's delicious homemade bread.

As delicious tasting as it was beautifully presented this was the pudding of the Christmas menu I chose on a trip to Glasgow yesterday.  The restaurant was Ardnamurchan in Hope Street.  The tables were laid out with Christmas crackers so it seemed only fair to choose from the Christmas menu.  I don't suppose a haggis bonbon starter could be decribed as traditional Christmas fare but the turkey and trimmings and Christmas pud that followed them certainly can.

I was in Glasgow to go to a production of Merrily We Roll Along at the RCS.  Ardnamurchan was handily just around the corner for lunch beforehand.  I accompanied my turkey with a couple of glasses of South African Shiraz.  That proved slightly unwise because I drifted off at one point and missed part of act 1 from what was a really excellent production.  The student cast were marvellous as was the band, set design, stage management, you name it.  If I were forced to pick a fault I'd say the lighting was occasionally misdirected, or maybe the actors didn't find the light.

The Grads production of A Christmas Carol was not up to that standard but it had some good things in it.  I liked the choir, the costumes, most of the acting and much of the movement.  The staging was let down by a too insistent elaboration of settings.  Did we need those fireplaces moving on and off?  The setting of the Cratchit's Christmas dinner seemed odd to me; squeezed into a corner when it should surely have been centre stage.

The last out and about session of my photography course saw us paradoxically indoors at the City Art Centre where there were three distinctly different photographic exhibitions on show.  Glean is a collection of the work of fourteen women photographers/filmmakers active in Scotland in the early 20th century.  It's a fascinating look at the ways of life that have vanished since then, an important historical record.

Ron O'Donnell's set of Edinburgh interiors was also a record of what has vanished.  This time I was familiar with some of the places he had photographed.  It was quite odd to look at the interior of the former Crawford's North Bridge tearoom empty of people (as were all his pictures) then glance through the gallery window to your left and see from the outside a couple of the windows that featured in the photograph.

The third exhibition was at least partly about what has vanished.  It contained pictures taken by Paul Duke on a return to his roots in Muirhouse.  Much of the environment in which he grew up had gone but not all of it.  He talks about the project here .

I was back in the City Art Centre a couple of days later and although I revisited those exhibitions I was focussed on Auld Reekie Retold which is a brilliant display of objects held in the city's various venues and uncovered in an extensive inventory and cataloguing project that has been going on for several years. I'll be back again before the exhibition closes in February and recommend it to those of my readers who can get there.  For those who can't here's a video about it. 

Arkle held their annual "evening" for the first time since Covid struck.  Mulled wine was consumed, chitchat occurred and Michael announced the programme for 2023.  I don't think I'm likely to take part in any of them but we'll see.  The Grads did likewise the following evening but I wasn't free to go.  There's a chance there may be an opportunity for me in one of their Fringe shows. 

I cooked for Ukraine and my holubtsi were eaten.  I hope with pleasure.  I quite enjoyed the bits I ate but I'm generally keen on my own cooking.  A few days ago I made what I consider to be a very tasty soup.  Oddly it was done as part of a Japanese class exercise though none of my classmates got to eat any of it.

I've been to a couple of concerts and next week I'll be playing in this one.