Black crow in a blue sky

I saw  black crow in a blue, blue sky. Watching and waiting. Possibly for me to take out my phone and snap a couple of pics, crows are clever for birds and very clever for humans. They see everything we do (that's outside). They like fast food waste, roadkill and worms recently turned up by plows. They refuse to socialize with seagulls and other less intelligent types of bird. They are brave, a little reckless but always alert and on the look out for an opportunity. They are bandits and heart breakers but... and that's about all I know on crows.

East Neuk Daily etc.

Still life with bird, shells and salvaged cactus plants. No significant meanings deduced so far.

The Bill O'Ness or the Billowness or even the Billy Ness. I'm not sure. The scene of much childhood exploration on my part, now more or less paved over and padded up for safety and comfort by the local golf course.

Anstruther harbour seen from a safe distance close to the site of the former "Regal" cinema. A cinema so close to the water that life belts were issued to the audience during showings of the Cruel Sea and Exodus. My mum's ashes were also scattered here a few years ago. The water has done it's job and there are no traces left.

I inadvertently walked into an unsigned black and white zone specially created for older people. Yeah that's how life appears when you're looking backwards.

Aberdeen daily photo

Underpass sunflowers.

Ships at anchor.

Lego Daily Photo

Niagara Falls - detail.

The Grand Canyon - detail.

The Hoover Dam - detail.

Pretty much anything and everything has been converted to Lego by now so these worlds are easily recognizable and familiar. Despite that they are still (for me) highly engaging and fun and I admire the skill, dexterity and imagination that creates them. Nice to get up close to these exhibits, three of many currently on display in the ancient heart of Stirling Castle oddly enough.

Wood, Iron, Stone

I suppose Instagram was really invented for photos like these but due to my quirky and unbalanced relationship with social media I'm posting them here where ... they'll do no harm and be relatively unseen and they wont compete for likes and comments with better, more exotic shots.

Milestone

It's my birthday today. Shame the weather's a bit gloomy but it's October and I'm having a nice day so far. Another milestone except it's not strictly a milestone birthday but I can confirm that the milestone above is an actual milestone complete with real miles and fractions of miles. Also made of cast iron.

East Neuk Daily Photo

I've been working in the East Neuk villages of Fife for the last few days. In the autumnal sunshine it's been great to take a break now and then and just wander around snapping scenes and odd things stacked against the new. There's too much to share in a single post, so many stone, timber and iron items and places that have rotted, rusted or weathered into wonderful shapes and textures. It's a treasure trove of old and modern oddities and cast off pieces. Strange how the whole "artisan" labelling has caught on too, every coffee shop, bakery and food emporium now has that tousled, shabby-chic look to it and of course the tourists lap it up (so it seems). I'm ambivalent about the changes, much of my childhood was spent here when things were less rosy, fishing was in a sharp decline and there was a hard and genuinely poor feel to these communities. Life was rough. It's all changed now and has become some frozen and preserved showpiece for the distant past and tougher times (?). Yes the old fishing and mining communities struggled and scraped and just about survived back then, when herring money built the piers and harbours in a quiet gold rush,  now all gone . Now they woo the visitors (like me, no longer local) with fish and chips, coffee and scones, lobsters and shellfish, pottery and the hard stones and wreckage of yesterday cemented back into place. 

Spy mode

There in the distance is the USNS Robert R Peary berthed at the MoD base next door to us (well a few miles away), photographed from the beach in the early morning light. She's a large logistical support (cargo) ship obviously visiting these parts for a short while. I did hear the hydraulic thunder of what I imagine to be her cargo hold covers' opening system yesterday but dismissed it as another weird sound coming up from the river on a still morning. Today I sauntered down to the shore an saw her tied up and loading cargo. What's she doing here? Probably engaged in some support work for the UK's new aircraft carrier as none of the UK's current supply ships can actually support it at the moment. That's down to the thumbnail size of today's RN and a direct consequence of some strange and stupid governmental decisions. Nothing new there then. 

1797

Local wanderings: Defiantly shining brightly in the October sunshine, the strangely fresh and clear carvings on a headstone that's over 200 years old. Browgh is an old Scottish name, probably of Viking origins. Whoever F, K and D were remains a mystery, 1797 wasn't a great year for them I guess but their memorial has remained undamaged and unmarked over the centuries. 

Cloud dog

When I took this picture of a cloud it looked like a dog. Now I've processed it by downloading it etc. it just about looks like a dog but really is more like just another cloud with odd features (though normal for a cloud). Looking at it again, with a fresh and indoor perspective it kind of looks more like a sheep, that's pretty normal for a cloud, white and fluffy etc. When I say a sheep I mean the head of a sheep, if you look at it carefully anyway. So in the end I'm now less likely to bother to take any further photos of individual clouds that seem to look like something at the time because despite all that "camera never lies" stuff that you hear over and over again, they do, or at the very least they tend to mislead in and irritating way.

The funny smell of agriculture

Normally I quite like the (preferably faint) smell of dung on the fields. It's a pleasant, familiar, evocative odour that's strangely enjoyable. It says countryside and promotes a sense of wholesomeness even if it's only cow shit sprayed across a field. Anyway these days our local fields are smelling like they've been burned, trampled and raised by rampaging Vikings. Fields of fire. Fields of fracking maybe. Deep beneath the tranquil Fife countryside, there's a raging fire ... and the mice are escaping and heading in our direction.

Pointless

A pointless punishment. Croatia v England last night, no goals, no spectators, no point. Souvenir programs were still produced but bought by nobody on the night, collectors wring their hands in anticipation of some turning up on eBay. The game went ahead with all the regular features, anthems and handshakes but little or no drama or passion was visible.  Like a concert or a play without an audience, a football match with no fans or atmosphere is like some grand Zen problem being acted out but without any context either spiritual or physical. This sporting life in some deferential and determined vacuum, wasting resources and time to prove a point that doesn't need to be proven. Modern life is rubbish sometimes.

Lobster pots

I typed this out (below) the other day whist suffering from the distorted belief that I had something to say. Now none of the earworm words will go away. It followed a brief visit to the village of Crail, where the ice cream shop is closed but the toilets are open. Where the roads are narrow and the sea is rough (wide?) and the expected "tourist" types wander here and there sipping coffee, peering through sunglasses, adjusting their scarves and pullovers, squinting into the wind and consider the prospect of retiring to a place like this one day (assuming they don't already live in one). 

That's not to say I'm critical of these folks, they belong wherever they want to belong. They do seem however to take their style and mannerisms from elsewhere, as if they've learned it rather than earned it. They arrive and then they exhibit. Maybe they've seen too many French films from the 60's or read certain arty magazines, maybe they've just slipped through from another dimension and are trying to fit in and just quietly live their own unobtrusive but alien lives. I'm not sure of anything...

The pots that trap the jet black lobster, 

laid out here by come Crail based mobster.

Not for him the simple, juicy oyster,

 just chilled, unwilling North Sea lobster, 
for the eating pleasure of some punter.

North Sea

To whom it may concern: I can confirm that the North Sea is still pretty much in it's proper place. A large part of it is stuck onto the right hand side of Scotland as you might expect. It has not moved elsewhere and it's whereabouts remain fairly accurately depicted on various maps, globes and google earth. Some of the actual water, flotsam and jetsam may have moved around a bit. I don't quite know, this material is difficult to track without sophisticated equipment and guesswork. As for fish, whales, crabs etc. I have no accurate information. Sorry about that.

The way we were

Our house as a ruin or a bit more of a ruin, fifty years ago (approx). A few things have changed, that tree has gone and so has most of the grass frontage. There have also been other events elsewhere in the world as well as locally, all too numerous to mention here, best to check Wikipedia or something.

Mushroom alert

It's only the 9th of October but there a clear and present signs that the wild mushroom season is upon us early this year. Take care out there. Trip hazards abound. I blame the moist air and the unseasonal warmth and general clammy dampness.

Grumpy old men

A night at the museum. Well somehow we won the Rip It Up pop quiz in Edinburgh last night. We actually beat 59 other teams and collected a golden trophy and a goodie bag each. I contributed very little in the way of substantial answers but it was fun being in the team and I enjoyed the exercise of wracking my brain and testing my limp memory. So our highly knowledgeable captain James deservedly picked up the trophy for us from Phil Jupitus at the end of the evening, much of which is now a blur.  Tommy's "Fall" anthology also got some major advertising as we waved it around for the cameras. Now back to normal life...

Jesus's autograph

Following an unexpected sequence of events that would rival an Indiana Jones plot I've come to possess an actual autograph penned by Jesus Christ himself. It's not even in Hebrew or Aramaic either but in English. I didn't know he could write (at all) far less use a Sharpie. Pretty sure it's not a fake and I've not heard of fakes circulating around these parts. I reckon that it's a bit of a collector's item. Might get a good price on eBay although I am tempted (?) to try to set up a deal with the Catholic Church. They do like relics and tat of that sort. Decisions decisions. 

World's greatest coffee and dangerous books

This coffee may or may not be worth £100 in bonus money to the barista who mixed it and poured it. There's clearly {?} a hidden world behind the froth and steam of coffee making establishments. Will this be a prize winner in the staff room and across the counter? We'll never really know.

Dangerous books in safe places No1. This book is on sale in the V&A Dundee and it might be considered dangerous by some readers and those of a nervous disposition. It's full of drawings, scribbles and swearing and promotes ideas (of a kind). I'm assuming the V&A is a safe place in as much as it's a new building and therefore must have passed various fire, health and safety tests or it would not be open to the general public i.e. you and me.

Poetry night

We attended a poetry reading evening last night, it lasted for about 65 minutes. There were three readers/poets/players. There was a full house albeit the house was small but that's better than no house at all. So after a slow bus journey home and a cheese and fruit bread supper I wrote a poem about it. It seemed like the right/write thing to do.

(I actually composed a few other versions in my head, in bed, but they're now  forgotten and so will remain unsaid):

The Poetry Evening.

When poets get together, gathered in their upper rooms, shielded from the damp world and caustic criticism, they operate, safe for now and untarnished.

Not always easy to understand quite what they're talking about, the sound is almost ...  varnished.

There's wine and civility, chatter and no rush for seats, expectation too. 

Words out loud that are used differently, cut up and misplaced.

Quotes and dropped names, a low level of fame, in the quite circles.

This is not the common speech.

 This is difficult to reach.

So. 

Is it some snobby club, some sect or private thing?

Nobody outside of the imagined circle crashes the night and everybody is polite and we all conform to useful stereotypes. 

It seems.

I'm some lone outside listener.

A temporary visitor.

In poet's land.