Kathie Touin's blog

It's officially Christmas

2011-12-14T16:24:00.001Z

St Magnus Cathedral

It's officially Christmas. At least it finally felt that way on Sunday night when I was lucky enough to sing with the Festival Chorus in St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall, Orkney's largest town. Along with the Orkney Camerata orchestra we performed Parts I and II from JS Bach's Christmas Oratorio.

With its lovely warm red sandstone walls, the cathedral is a very special place to perform. And from my perch in the back row of the alto section I had a perfect view of the attentive audience with a very tall Christmas tree in the background.

The soloists, who had come up from the south for the performance, were wonderful. I especially enjoyed mezzo Judy Brown's aria 'Slumber in Blissful Repose', her soaring vocal chiming beautifully with Gemma McGregor's flute.

Between the sections of the Oratorio, Catriona Price and Tabea Sitte played Bach's Concerto for Two Violins with the Camerata. I thoroughly enjoyed this, as the young women clearly relished the challenge of the music.

I have sung with choirs before, including once for HM The Queen at the Royal Festival Hall in London with the Voicelab project.

But I must admit I've never been a big fan of classical voices. I don't enjoy opera, which I'm sure makes me a musical philistine. But I find the singing style too mannered and unnatural.

The cathedral, with its soaring ceiling, arches and oddly-shaped roof spaces, pulls and twists musical sound around inside it. Notes reverberate for ages amongst all these nooks and crannies, and the return of the sound happens at different times in different places.

Some of our singers were complaining about the acoustics, that it made it difficult for them to hear themselves. I tend not to worry about this, especially in a choir - I figure if you just sing the right notes with the right amount of enthusiasm the sound will sort itself out just by dint of the sheer number of voices!

But that night, as we sang with nary a microphone or amplifier in sight, I suddenly understood why classical singing has developed the way it has. Obviously in the early days, music was written mostly for religious services, so it would have been heard in big, echoing stone barns of buildings. Anyone singing in a 'normal' chest or head voice would never be heard.

But hearing the voices of tenor soloist Joseph Doody and bass soloist Jerome Knox cleaving softly through the air made me realise this is why classical singers sing as they do. It carried magnificently throughout this enormous, weirdly echoing space and sounded beautiful and pure.

I learned something else that is borne out of the acoustical nature of the cathedral.

The organist, Heather Rendall, explained to me that if she is playing in this sort of situation, where the soloists and orchestra are a fair distance from where she sits at the organ keyboard, she has to anticipate the music and actually play just slightly ahead of when it will be heard.

I'd come across a similar phenomenon playing keyboards in bands using a slow strings patch, which has a very slow attack, so I would have to play the chord ahead of when I wanted it to actually sound. But I can hardly imagine doing this with something as complicated as Bach.

So Sunday was an evening filled with glorious music and voices, and I had an unexpected lesson in classical voice and acoustics.

Thanks to Glenys Hughes for leading us so ably. I appreciate the opportunity to sing such wonderful music in such a beautiful setting.

Kathie Touin

New-fangled gizmo

2011-12-09T12:03:00.001Z

Christmas has come early for me this year - I have a new mobile phone! After a nail-biting few days when its delivery was delayed by gales, snow, sleet and ice (in other words, normal Orkney winter weather) it has arrived in its absurdly small cardboard box.

Is this a sudden extravagance on my part, I hear you ask? Not exactly. Is it the latest iPhone with apps or an Android with other things I know nothing about? No. It's whatever I could get for free on my current arrangement with my mobile provider.

It's a fluorescent pink, wafer-thin object with a QWERTY keyboard. I can't vouch for whether or not I'm going to get on with this particular bit of technology. It's main selling point seems to be the inverse of those VW Golf ads that are running at the moment - it's like a Blackberry but it isn't one.

Now I love a gadget as much as the next person, and will happily babble on for hours about the things I have in my recording studio and the things I'd like to have in it but don't (yet).

But somehow having all the latest communication wonder-products doesn't do it for me. It could be due to age.

I blame this for my first reaction to my new phone's tiny keyboard, designed for someone with fingers the size of toothpicks. How am I supposed to use this? More to the point, if I'm wearing contacts, how am I supposed to see what I'm doing?

I mean I've only just got to grips with predictive text!

My main disappointment is that it doesn't have as good a camera as my previous phone. I feel let down by this.

Yet I don't feel the need for my phone to have a camera equivalent to my DSLR or to have it play my music collection at me. I just like the idea of being able to take silly photos of reasonable quality at will. And to have a reasonably interesting game to play when I'm bored. We'll have to see what's come with this one.

I can tell you're desperately curious as to why I've suddenly felt the need to get this device. No insatiable urge to upgrade for me.

We have a beautiful floor in our upstairs bathroom made of smooth stone pebbles. Unfortunately it doesn't agree with the display screen of mobile phones when they are dropped face-down on it. This has left my old phone with a beautifully artistic crazed look to the screen, but has sadly rendered it useless.

So I'm going to go plug in my new toy, get it fired up and see how long it takes before I start swearing at those tiny little keys... Wish me luck.

Kathie Touin

Been there? Done that? Now you can get the t-shirt!

2011-10-09T18:50:00.000+01:00

Last night I had the pleasure of playing the piano at the Lynnfield Hotel in Kirkwall, here in Orkney. It's one of my favourite restaurants, so I naturally accepted when they asked if I'd play for a couple of hours on a Saturday night.

With a cosy welcoming fire, comfy antique furniture, a fine selection of single malts and excellent food, it's a lovely place to while away an evening.

Looks like I'll be playing there again as part of the schedule of Christmas delights they're planning, so watch this space!

In other news, the Kathie Touin Shop is now open at Café Press. Come peer inside and see what we've put together for you.

Everything from t-shirts to teddy bears, mugs and wall plaques, hats and bags, badges and underpants! All featuring quotes from some of my lyrics.

And yes, now you, too, can own THE t-shirt made famous by the song, 'T shirt' on my CD Butterfly Bones. Go out and proudly show the world, "Yes, it is. Really."

Visit www.cafepress.co.uk/kathietouin

See you there!

Kathie Touin

PS With only a matter of weeks until Christmas (sorry) my shop is also a great place to find presents!

International Fulmar Rescue rides again!

2011-09-02T15:16:00.000+01:00

In safe hands

Graham and I recently returned from a very nice holiday with his father in Devon, in the south of England. On the return we had a day's rest at father-in-law's house in Lincolnshire, before heading out on our two-day trek north back to Orkney. We spent one night in a lovely B&B in Lauder before continuing our drive north.

We'd been keeping an eye on the weather which, while most eyes were on the immense Hurricane Irene in the US, had turned decidedly nasty up over Northern Scotland. We weren't surprised then to learn that our ferry back to Orkney had been cancelled. We spent a night in a hastily-booked hotel in Wick and made it home the next day on the lunchtime Pentland Ferry.

Bags were lugged in and dropped in the hall, and the all important cups of tea had just been made, when the phone rang. It was Jenny at the RSPB office. Would we be able to rescue a fulmar fledgling that construction workers on a site near our house had noticed was trapped in the burn and unable to fly? How could I say no?


It's in here somewhere...

So back into the car we went and parked at the now deserted construction site. I soon spotted the poor bird's wings flapping in the vegetation as it struggled to push itself clear. It very obviously wasn't going to be able to get airborne on this bit of water. Fulmars are a type of petrel, a seabird with legs set so far back on their body that they can't take off from dry land, but need a stretch of open water.

After a few minutes of wading up to my knees in freezing cold water, I managed to get hold of the poor bird, clutched it to my chest, hoping it wouldn't use the fulmar's defence of spitting a noxious fishy fluid at me, and sloshed my way back to Graham and the car. Graham was helpfully taking pictures of the whole thing. I admit I don't look my best, as we'd just been travelling for three days, but it was worth it.

Wrapped in Graham's shirt to keep it calm - and protect my fingers from nips!

Back in the car, with the bird giving me the occasional spirited nip, we drove down to the beach at Skaill Bay, put the fulmar at the water's edge, and watched happily as it half-paddled, half-flapped its way out into the open water.

Nearly there!

It's a tremendously satisfying feeling to be able to help a wild creature in trouble.

The water's edge

Knowing how long-lived fulmars are, it felt good to give this youngster a helping hand, and I hope that it has a long, productive life.

Off it goes

As the RSPB warden Alan commented later, 'Who ya gonna call?' Probably us again!

Kathie Touin

A fancy dress parade like no other...

2011-07-31T18:51:00.000+01:00

Kathie's husband Graham writes:

One of the unique features of Orkney is Stromness Shopping Week, a week of music, entertainment, children's competitions and community events. This year's event was the 63rd.

The week culminates with a fancy dress parade through Stromness, followed by an open air dance and fireworks. So there we were last Saturday night, 23 July, in the crowd outside the Stromness Hotel watching the parade go by.

The floats are inventive, funny, rude, artistic and, in some cases, large. One tractor seemed to be pulling half-a-dozen trailers - apparently they got stuck on their way through the narrow streets. Another was pulling a trailer, a Ford Sierra (painted as a police car) and a second tractor.

The kids on the floats are cute, the adults are enthusiastic, some in drag, some might even have had a drink or two before setting off - or while in transit.

This year's winning float was Around The World In 80 Days, and featured a hydraulic lift disguised as the hot air balloon. Others take themes based on local news stories and talking points that would take too long to explain here.

So, let's let the photographs do the talking...

All photographs by Kathie Touin

Graham Brown

Part 2 Of An Orkney Tall Story

2011-07-19T12:41:00.002+01:00


Tall ships in Stromness Harbour

Following on from Graham's previous blog, we arrived early on Monday morning in Stromness so that we could park the car before the roads were shut for the day's festivities. Graham headed off for the RSPB office and I wandered the sleepy streets of early morning Stromness.

I decided to have a coffee at the excellent Cafe Bar and sat outside in the sunshine. I noticed after awhile that the Stromness Lifeboat seemed to be giving people trips out into Hoy Sound and back. Intrigued, I went over and managed to get on the last trip before the Lifeboat was required to pick up the Shopping Week Queen and deliver her to the waiting crowds on the Pierhead.


On board the Stromness Lifeboat

It was an exhilarating ride, and gave a hint at the power these boats are capable of. Crossing back over its own wake provided some exciting bounces over the waves, which set kids and adults alike off squealing. It was great fun, capped off by coming in alongside the visiting tall ships, giving great views of these beautiful vessels.


Returning on the Lifeboat - tall ships with the ferry Hamnavoe on right

Discovering that the tall ship Sørlandet was open for viewing, I decided to have a look around. I had a scary moment when I got a bit stuck trying to get down the gangway steps onto the boat. The steps angled backwards, and my injured ankle doesn't bend that way. Thanks very much to the young couple who offered to help and made sure I got down okay, which I did eventually!

On board the Sørlandet

It is indeed a beautiful ship, and the intricate rigging is fascinating. I watched a sailor climb up the mast and out onto a spar, balancing on the rope all the way out to the very end. Obviously a head for heights helps in this work.

Sailor working on the Sørlandet


The Shopping Week Queen and entourage arriving in Stromness by lifeboat

I watched the Shopping Week Queen and her entourage arrive by Lifeboat, speeches were made, and the 63rd Stromness Shopping Week began! It's a week of activities and fun, mostly for the kids, culminating in a parade and fireworks.

Speech! Speech!

After lunch with friends, I met up with Graham and we headed home. For the first time since moving to Orkney, I was too hot and had got a bit too much sun, but it was a lovely morning. I hope the Tall Ships return next year.


Some of the tall ships visiting Orkney

Kathie Touin

A tall story from Orkney - but it's all true

2011-07-17T20:11:00.004+01:00

Statsraad Lehmkuhl in Kirkwall

Kathie's husband Graham Brown writes:

Orkney is a great place to live

Greek chorus: "Yes, yes, you've told us before."

But, really, it is. And one of the warming aspects of life here is the way the community joins together for special events.

The Orkney Folk Festival, St Magnus Festival, the agricultural shows, Stromness Shopping Week - and other events - all bring people out into the fresh air or the concert hall to meet, drink, talk and enjoy life.

This weekend is another example. The Tall Ships Races 2011 is visiting Orkney, which means some of the world's most beautiful vessels are moored in Kirkwall and Stromness, and sailing between the two.

The vessels are an inspiration to see. But, more than that, once again the event brings the community together.

Kathie and I went to Kirkwall on Saturday morning to watch some of the ships leave for Kirkwall, and then over to Stromness in the afternoon to watch them arrive.

Being Orkney, the streets were alive with folk, food, drink, music, dancing and general good humour. We weren't home until after midnight which, for us, is way past bedtime.

The events linked to the tall ships continue throughout the weekend - one of our friends is very excited about going to see KT Tunstall in Kirkwall tonight, having seen The Saw Doctors on Friday night.

On Monday I'm volunteering again at the RSPB office in Stromness so Kathie is coming with me to have another look at the ships, to meet Glasgow friends for coffee (after bumping into them yesterday) and to experience the beginning of Stromness Shopping Week. It will take a whole blog to explain what shopping week is all about, so for now here are some more photographs of the weekend's fun.

Kirkwall City Pipe Band in Kirkwall

Kirkwall Harbour

The pilot boat watching the Statsraad Lehmkuhl

The ships depart Kirkwall for Stromness

Statsraad Lehmkuhl in Stromness - the ferry Hamnavoe in background

The Vatersay Boys play in Stromness

Safe at harbour in Stromness - Gulden Leeuw (left) and Sorlandet

The intricate rigging

Drinking in the rain outside Stromness Hotel

Stromness in the rain - hometime for these youngsters

All photographs by Kathie Touin.

Graham Brown

Wildlife encounters and beautiful weather

2011-07-04T17:53:00.030+01:00

Clear waters at the Sands of Evie

It's July! Where did June go? The last time I looked it was the end of May and I was preparing for the Orkney Folk Festival.

The festival was great fun, and after only a couple of days to recover I flew off to Heathrow to meet my mother who came over from California for her first visit to Orkney. We flew back up here the next day and had a wonderful three weeks together.

Even with all that time we still didn't manage to tick everything off the sightseeing list! It never ceases to amaze me just how packed full of stuff-to-see Orkney is, considering its size.

The weather has been unusually kind since the beginning of June, so the last week of the month was spent catching up on gardening. Large swathes of our one big border have been cleared and new plants put in. It's starting to look like a proper garden now. And we're getting results from our vegetable patch created in a former children's sandpit...

Our groovy radishes

The long grass in The Park (our large field adjacent to the house) is even longer and has effectively swallowed up the little trees we planted in Spring. Another looming project is weeding around them all in the next few weeks.

The swallows nesting in our garage seem to be having more success this year. There is a halo of grey fuzz peeking above the edge of the nest, so there are definitely chicks, and the adults scold us every time we venture in for tools or the lawnmower.

I was surprised last week to discover the blackbirds flying in and out of the garage with food, and found that what I thought was an abandoned speculative starling nest had been used by the blackbirds. One chick fledged a bit early and was hopping around in the garage for several days, with the adults coming in regularly to feed it.

Unfortunately, on closer inspection, we found the reason it had left the nest early - a nearly fully-grown chick had died in the nest. Graham bravely climbed the ladder to fetch it down and dispose of it. The live chick seems to have left the garage and is now in the field, judging by the adults' behaviour and the incessant calling from our escallonia hedge.

Our other recent notable wildlife encounter happened on a drive to our nearest village. There was a confused-looking hedgehog wandering around on the road, in the middle of the afternoon, so rather than abandon it to being flattened by a less-considerate driver, I hopped out and picked it up to move it to the roadside.

I managed to get my fingers under its fuzzy belly before it curled up. I got a brief glimpse of a slightly puzzled, but very cute face before it became a ball of prickles in my hands. I poked it under the fence and aimed it into the field hoping it would continue in that direction and not go back onto the road. They are such interesting creatures and I didn't mind a bit that one or two places on my hands itched for a few hours where I'd got them stuck by prickles.

Graham at Sands of Evie

To celebrate the start of July, Graham and I had an excursion to the spectacular beach at the Sands of Evie where we enjoyed a picnic and a wade in the sun-warmed shallows. It felt really good to be in a sleeveless shirt and shorts, and I was very happy to find myself on a beach again now that my post-op ankle has got a bit stronger and can handle walking on sand.

We also visited the atmospheric Broch of Gurness, the remains of a 2,000-year-old village built around a broch, or tower. The sky was so blue and clear, and the ground so dry, that my photograph could have been taken in the Mediterranean...

Broch of Gurness

So a bit more gardening to do, more visitors this month, the Tall Ships races to watch, Stromness Shopping Week to enjoy - it's all go here. My ankle is very slowly improving so no hiking yet, but I'm hoping to get out and do some gentle walks while we have such glorious weather.

I hope it's warm and sunny where you are and that you're having a lovely Summer.

Kathie Touin

The Selkie of Skaill Bay: free download of new song

2011-05-30T16:47:00.001+01:00

It's the day after the Orkney Folk Festival, and I'm a bit tired. But it's that nice sort of tired after a very satisfying weekend. I sang with the Song Shop Choir in the Festival Club on Friday night, and in the same venue the next night played keyboard for singer Jo Philby along with Graham Simpson on guitar.

I enjoyed performing as well as being able to sit in the audience and discover some bands who were new to me. The all-female Poozies were amazing, especially their perfect harmonies, and the manic energy of Session A9 was a treat to watch - very inspiring to this beginning fiddler. The Danish and Swedish trio Habbadam were lovely and their on-stage banter was hilarious.

To celebrate my appearances at the 2011 Orkney Folk Festival I've released a demo version of my new song, The Selkie of Skaill Bay, which is available as a free download until the end of June 2011. The free download is only available through CDBaby. Other outlets will charge, so go to http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/kathietouin4 to get your free track!

The Selkie Of Skaill Bay is inspired by the folklore of Orkney. A selkie is a seal which can shed its skin and come ashore in human form to dance on the beach. If the skin is lost or stolen, the selkie can not resume its seal shape and is trapped on land. The song tells the story of one such female selkie from the heroine's point of view.

I hope you enjoy the new song as much as I enjoyed this year's Orkney Folk Festival. Thanks to everyone involved behind the scenes of the Festival - they were a busy bunch! And thanks to Jo Philby for asking me to play with her.

Hope to see you at next year's Folk Festival!

Kathie Touin

Gearing up for Orkney Folk Festival

2011-05-27T11:34:00.002+01:00

My husband Graham retired early from the BBC so we could move from London to Orkney. And, as you may have gathered, we love it.

I was struck by a quote Graham found in the December 2010 edition of Prospero, the newspaper for BBC pensioners. It is from an obituary for Stanley Williamson, who was a producer based in Manchester but originally from London.

On a BBC staff-training course in London, in 1949, he observed: "It wasn't until I left London that I really began to live. By going North I have left behind some of the most parochially-minded people under the sun. Londoners as a whole can't see anything that's happening more than twenty miles North or West of Oxford Circus unless it's happening at the other end of the world. They don't know how the rest of Britain lives and works, and they don't bother to find out."

Now, this is one view, and a generalisation, and - good friends in London - please don't be offended, it doesn't apply to you.

But it is a useful counter-weight to the presumption of many that everything happens in London and nothing happens outside London, certainly not in a remote group of islands beyond the northern coastline of mainland Scotland.

Since moving here just 13 months ago we've discovered there is so much going on and so much to get involved with, and we really are living.

And so, to this year's Orkney Folk Festival.

I have been asked to accompany Jo Philby, one of Orkney's best-known singers, at her gig at the Festival Club in the Stromness Hotel on Saturday (28 May). I'll be playing keyboards and Graham Simpson will be adding tasteful guitar. We are on the bill with Dàimh and Habbadám.

Jo released her debut CD, Saltwater & Stone, in 2009, on which she was accompanied by a fine blend of Orcadian musicians. In the two years since its release, it has since been hailed as "a treasure trove of carefully chosen songs from the living well of folk music".

And I'll be at the same venue the night before - tonight - as part of the Song Shop Choir, on the bill with Session A9 and The Poozies.

With the other concerts Graham and I will be attending, this looks to be a lively weekend.

Despite London being jam-packed with musicians, I found it difficult to connect musically with anyone there. It's been a delight to come to Orkney and find an energetic music scene that begins with its young people and goes right through to professional performers and world-renowned composers.

Funny how you can be immersed in a city of millions yet feel disconnected. It took leaving London to re-discover what space and light and genuine community can do for music and musicians.

Here's to the 2011 Orkney Folk Festival!

For more about the festival and Jo Philby's music, please have a look at the websites:

http://www.orkneyfolkfestival.com/

http://www.jophilby.co.uk/

Kathie Touin

Let's hear it for carers

2011-04-25T17:44:00.000+01:00

Kathie's husband Graham writes:

As regular readers of this blog will know, Kathie is recovering from a recent ankle operation. She's a great patient who doesn't complain much about pain and discomfort. You might say, she's a woman, not a man.

The surgeon instructed her to be non-weight bearing on her ankle for four weeks and then to start gradually putting weight on it. In order to do this, of course, she is using crutches. So, even now, as she is getting out and about more, she is restricted in what she can do. For instance, carrying food dishes and drinks is not possible.

This period has taught me a great deal. I was the only person who could cook, wash-up, clean, do the washing, feed the birds, dig the garden - or anything else around the house. I never realised how exhausting it could be.

Kathie is gradually able to do more about the place and eventually she will dispense with the crutches. So I'm lucky. But what if I was caring for someone who was not going to get better? The pressure on the carer must be enormous, heart-breaking, shattering.

I experienced it in a small way - as soon as you get a chance to sit down, or do something for yourself, the call comes to help with another task. Tiredness and frustration can build and, unchecked, outside a loving relationship, could become a vicious circle.

Perhaps worse, what if you were a carer looking after someone who, for whatever reason, did not realise they needed help? Someone with dementia, for instance. Then on top of all the work and stress you wouldn't even get a simple "thank you".

I've had lots of thanks from Kathie and it is great to see her getting stronger and able to do more. Next time I'm ill - no jokes about man-flu please - I hope I'll appreciate all the help I get in return.

Graham Brown

Spring explodes in Orkney

2011-04-04T18:47:00.002+01:00

Spring seems to have exploded into life here in Orkney. We've had the Spring Equinox (and my birthday!), we've moved our clocks forward, and now it's light when I wake up at 7.30 to listen to BBC Radio Orkney, and twilight is still lingering after 8.30pm when we close the curtains.

At the beginning of March, Spring seemed to be struggling to emerge from the torpor of Winter - the daffodils were up but not flowering, a few crocus blooms had shown their purple faces and immediately been beaten into the ground by the wind. It was cold. A few common gulls had arrived back and we could hear the oyster catchers and the occasional curlew calling at night in the distance.

The other day I sat out in our field adjacent to our house, perched on a dining-room chair thoughtfully brought out for the occasion by my husband. This might seem odd but four weeks on from my ankle surgery and I'm still banned from putting weight on my foot, which is usually encased in a giant plastic boot. Sitting on my chair in the field, I watched Graham plant the first of the tiny trees we've purchased. We have grand plans for putting in some sections of woodland in our field to provide shelter for our future vegetable garden, and to attract more varieties of birds.

When I say woodland, bear in mind that in Orkney, unless you live in a town or a very sheltered place, trees don't get very big. But the birds don't mind, and a tree is a tree as far as I'm concerned. Having lived in dense forest in the American Pacific Northwest I wouldn't want our field to be that thick with growth. I do love Orkney's openness and vast skies, but I do miss trees sometimes, and have to go visit Happy Valley or Binscarth Woods for a fix.

It will be many years before these trees are of any real height, but I'm enjoying the process of creating something we can watch develop over time. It's a good cure for the addiction to instant gratification (which takes too long anyway*). And hopefully the people who live here after us will be able to enjoy what we've done.

It was glorious sitting out there (watching Graham work), a warmer day than we've had for awhile, billowing clouds, a gentle wind and wonderful sunshine. As I was in an advisory role, I was able to watch the landscape, and realised how nice it is just to sit and be a spectator.

The amount of bird activity has suddenly increased since the Solstice. All afternoon I watched curlews doing their bizarre parachuting display, calling their strange bubbly calls. Common gulls screeched overhead. The black-headed gulls look resplendent with their new chocolate-brown head feathers as they fly over.

Down in the field below, I could see and hear a pair of lapwings doing their tumbling, acrobatic display and making their squeaky-toy noises. A flock of oyster catchers raced overhead shrieking at and chasing something that looked very much like a peregrine falcon. The pigeons on the barn next door were strutting and cooing at each other, the starlings flitting about investigating possible nesting sites. At one point a dark shadow drifted over me and I looked up in time to see what I think was a female hen harrier cruising down to the fields below. And I can't be sure, but I thought that I saw a pair of swallows! Surely not yet?

Our first daffodils have popped out in our garden and it's fun going for a drive to see them blooming along the roads here in West Mainland, which is covered in huge drifts of daffodils.

So Spring seems to have sprung, and I can't wait to start walking again so I can get out and help Graham in the garden. Last year we arrived at our new home in mid-April and were so busy getting moved in and settled we didn't have much time to work in the garden, so I'm very excited about our prospects this year.

I'll let you know how we get on.

Kathie Touin

*This joke belongs to Carrie Fisher

White-out

2011-03-22T18:25:00.000Z

Kathie's husband Graham writes:

Here in Orkney the daffodils that were sensible enough to grow in sheltered spots are starting to appear and even those in our exposed garden will be out soon. We already have some crocuses flowering though they have been battered in recent high winds. So we should be well on the way to spring and summer. Well, perhaps.

Folk here in Orkney like to remind you that you can never be sure what the weather will do in these islands. Our local shopkeeper told me recently that in 1968 on the first of April there was a sudden unexpected heavy snowfall which resulted in all their delivery lorries being stranded.

So in the spirit of anything could yet happen, here is another short story written by Kathie's father Gordon Twa.

White-out by Gordon Twa

It was Sunday morning. The sky was leaden, with the promise of more snow. It was about twenty below. We had a lot of snow so far that winter. There was probably five feet on the level with drifts over eight feet where the wind piles it up. Last night there had been about four inches, which on top of a thick crust made for ideal skiing.

I strapped on my brand new skis. The skis and poles were my Christmas present. They had the latest spring heel bindings. Last night I had spent hours waxing them to perfection. I had heavy wool pants over my long underwear. These were stuffed into the outer pair of two pair of wool socks.I couldn’t afford regular ski boots so my boots were ankle high leather boots. I used a rat-tail file to make a groove in the back of the heels to hold the spring clamps of the ski harness. A long tan parka with a fur-fringed hood protected me from the cold. When it really got cold and windy, I used a blue-and-green plaid wool scarf to cover my face, leaving only my eyes exposed.

Around the corner of the house came Junior Keopsel. Junior lived just down the road from me. Junior and I were the same age, thirteen. His folks owned a little convenience store. We were off for some cross-country skiing.

This was farm country about two-and-a-half miles out of town. With the heavy snow, the fences were no barrier, as we could ski right over them. We headed north across the fields, parallel to the highway.

I had a couple peanut-and-jelly sandwiches and a small Thermos of hot tea in my old haversack and Junior had brought along some cheese, smoked sausage and crackers and also a Thermos of tea in a surplus army field pack.

We were off. Our breath left little puffs of white like an old steam train as we glided along. The land was very gentle rolling so that it was easy skiing and we made good time. There was a gravel pit a couple miles from the house and we spent some time skiing down the slope of the pit walls. After a while we got hungry and sat down in the bottom of the pit where we were out of the wind. We shared our lunch and drank some of the tea. By this time we figured we should be heading back.

We herring-boned our way up the slope and out of the pit and set course for home. The sky looked more ominous and snow started coming down. First just a few small icy flakes then it got heavier. The wind picked up and it felt like the temperature was dropping.

We had not gone far when the whole world turned white. The snow was so heavy that you could barely see your hand at arm’s length. We knew we had to seek shelter. Stories of people skiing in circles when lost in a whiteout were all too familiar. The wind blew in gusts and one moment you could see a few feet then the next it closed in. In one of these clearing moments we spotted a large drift. If we got in the lee of that we would at least be out of the wind.

It was a relief to be out of the wind but it was getting damned cold. We knew about snow caves but had never tried one before. We used our skis as shovels to dig into the drift. We carved out a nice cave with a place to sit and even made little shelves to set our packs. Once it was about four feet deep, we replaced some of the snow at the entrance to narrow the opening. We left three skis standing vertically outside the entrance so that if things got really bad, people would be able to find us. The fourth ski we kept inside to dig out with.

The wind howled and moaned around the drift but inside it was not too uncomfortable. The snow acted like an insulator and our body heat actually warmed our little abode. But it was still damn cold. We took turns taking off our mittens and holding the tin cup of the Thermos with about a half-inch of tea and swirling it around to warm our fingers.

The wind, at last died down. I looked at my Westclock pocket watch. We had been in our cave for over three hours. We poked the ski through to open up the entrance and were delighted to be able to see the trees on the far side of the field.

Outside we strapped on our skis and with a gleeful shout of relief headed for home.

Gordon Twa

Third Time's the Charm

2011-03-11T18:24:00.000Z

"Three times lucky" people say. And "third time's the charm". I hope they're right. On the third day of the third month of this year, at a little after three in the afternoon, I went into the operating theatre for the third surgery on my right ankle in a little over five years.

Three being such a respected mystical and symbolic number, I'm hoping this augers well for the result.

As I have mentioned before, this is all entirely Ewan McGregor's fault. Nearly six years ago I turned my ankle on a wobbly paving stone in Regents Street, London, on my eager way to see him onstage in Guys And Dolls in the West End.

After initial misdiagnosis, two surgeries in London and endless physiotherapy, last week I found myself flying to Aberdeen on a beautiful sunny Orkney morning for another operation on the poor benighted ankle.

Sorry to say I didn't see much of that grave granite city, though the stern face of Woodend Hospital gave a taste. When the sun hits the silvery grey stone, it does sparkle beautifully in the light.

I have previously made known my views about how ludicrous I find the anti-NHS, so-called 'socialised' medicine ranting in the US. Those of you of that mindset might consider my recent experience.

Because I live on this beautiful, far-flung jewel of an island, to have this surgery done necessitated me flying to the consultant's hospital in Aberdeen. The NHS booked and paid for my flight. It cost me only a £10 booking fee.

When I arrived, a nice man from the Red Cross met me at the airport with a minibus that took me to the hospital, free of charge.

I was admitted to a bright, clean, cheerful ward, with tall windows and a pleasant vista of hills and trees. I was cared for expertly by kind, patient nurses and worked on by a professional, careful surgical team who managed things expertly. I felt at all times that they were interested in my welfare and comfort, and any concerns I had were addressed, no question too pestering.

I was not allowed to leave, even though the return flight had been arranged by the hospital, until they were sure I was fit and well enough.

I left with prescriptions for an anti-inflammatory, two pain medications, aspirin to keep my blood thin, and a top-up of one of my regular medications (they'd offered to top up the other three but I declined as I had plenty at home).

I was not charged any money for the medication. I get all my prescriptions for free as I have a life-long thyroid problem that requires regular medication.

The Red Cross minibus took me to the airport, where airport staff placed me in a wheelchair, took charge of me and whisked me smartly through check-in and security, where I was treated kindly and respectfully. The woman who was to pat me down even asked first if I was in pain anywhere other than my foot. I had no objections to the search, which was done with consideration.

I was wheeled out to the plane, a Saab twin-prop belonging to Flybe, where a ground crewman drove up in an Ambulift, a sort of enclosed room on the back of a truck.

I was wheeled inside the back, and the Ambulift's platform slowly rose until level with the plane's cabin doorway. They offered to wheel me to my seat, but I said I could manage on the crutches. I was the only person needing the Ambulift, but was helped on good-naturedly by the crewman and the plane's sole cabin crew.

When we arrived back in Kirkwall, the process happened again in reverse.

Once off the plane, the airport staff member wheeled me over to the baggage carousel (not very far in our lovely little airport) so Graham could pick the bags up, and then wheeled me all the way across the car park to our car, and waited until I was safely seated inside before wishing us cheerio.

A few days later, I was having trouble with some very unpleasant side effects of taking so much pain medication (I'll spare you the details). We rang the local doctors' surgery, and a very cheery and reassuring nurse came to the house to help.

She returned later in the day, even though they were short-staffed and she was covering the entire West Mainland that day herself. She came back for one final check on me the next day, and as she left reminded us that they're available 24-hours a day, seven days a week if I needed any more help, and not to hesitate to call them.

Now I know as well as anyone that not all hospitals everywhere are always nice. I realise people in England may well be grumbling about the subsidies the Scottish NHS receives, especially as it was my choice to move to this remote island.

But consider that, when I lived in the US, I couldn't afford health insurance as I was self-employed and it was astronomically expensive. I nearly died once because I refused to let someone take me to the hospital in an emergency, because I knew I couldn't afford the bills afterwards.

When times were tough I had to go without in order to afford the medication I needed to keep me on my feet. And I know how bad the situation is there now for millions of Americans. They have all my sympathy.

So to those in the US who hiss about the creeping Communism of 'socialised' medicine, given the choice between the kind of care I've just received here in Scotland, or living as I did before moving the UK, I know which I would choose.

I normally avoid politics in my postings, but I have been so humbled and gratified by the care and kindness I have received throughout this experience, that I feel it needs saying.

Thank you to everyone at the Dounby Surgery, Kirkwall and Aberdeen airports and the Red Cross, and to Mr Dougall, his team and the nurses of Ward 8 at Woodend Hospital who are helping me to get my footing back.

Kathie Touin

New Life for a (Handwritten) Blog

2011-03-10T17:54:00.000Z

As I am convalescing from recent ankle surgery (more on that later), I've been reading Orcadian writer George Mackay Brown's book Under Brinkie's Brae, a collection of the columns he wrote for The Orcadian newspaper during the 1970s.

It's a most enjoyable read, small observations on life in general, but made with revealing warmth, humour and frequent bemusement. It's perfect when I'm not feeling wonderful and am happy to take comfort in small things.

With that in mind, I've decided to take inspiration from the format (and style, if I'm honest) and have a fresh start with my blog, which has ground to a near-halt recently.

Less, more often, is my new mantra, which I'm sure will be easy to maintain while I'm chained to bed and chair and crutch. We'll have to see how it survives when faced with regained mobility and the lure of summer outdoors.

But that will all have to wait awhile. This morning, as I write this, we have no electricity (I was writing in a notebook, if you must know), and are buried serenely beneath a layer of unexpected snow. "Wintry shooers" were forecast, but, as far as I can tell from my indoor vantage point, we seem to have had a few inches fall.

My faithful manservant has declared he will venture out and investigate, and will bring back photos (see above).

It makes me sad that some people hate snow, or at least dislike it intensely. Yes, it's inconvenient and awful to drive in if one has to go out.

But to me, perhaps because I grew up in virtually snow-free Southern California, snow is magical, more so when, having gone to bed to clear skies and grey ground, I wake to dazzling whiteness.

It is the only thing that can make a city beautiful, though the city's true nature quickly wins out and renders snow dirty, slushy and malevolent. It lasts longer here in the countryside, moulding itself to hare paws and brushings from bird feathers.

Earlier the sky was iron grey, and an impossibly white gull drifted across the expanse of my recovery room window. Now the sky is brilliant, icy blue with hanks of torn white and grey cloud wisping across its face.

It's disappointing not to be able to go outside and swish through this unexpected gift of whiteness. But I suspect snow and crutches are best not mixed.

Kathie Touin

How to speed up time - without a TARDIS

2011-02-28T18:50:00.000Z

Kathie's husband Graham Brown has ideas about bending time. He writes:

Seize the day, a great rule for life. I expect most of us would agree.

But there are days when, well, you just have to wait for life to move on.

Perhaps it is the morning of a tricky dental appointment that you wish was behind you.

Or the day of long air flight, maybe of 12 hours, squashed up in standard class, at the end of which you will be in another continent on a vastly different time zone, completely befuddled.

I love to read. And I love to listen to music. But time can still drag on the plane, or in the waiting room.

Let us say you are going on a long flight, you just want to be at the other end, with your loved ones, and cut out, as far as possible, the travelling. Here is my method of dealing with it.

When you wake on the morning of your journey, work out how many hours it will be before you reach your destination. Perhaps 18 hours, by the time you have got ready, travelled to the airport, checked-in and flown. Now, think back to what you were doing 18 hours ago (don't worry, you can keep the thought to yourself).

Two hours later and you are at the airport - still 16 hours to go before touchdown. Groan. But now think back to what you were doing 16 hours ago. You are now looking back from a perspective further into the future and so your past life will have moved on, not by two hours, but by four hours.

So your past life is moving forward twice as fast as real time. This tricks your mind into feeling that real time is also moving more quickly.

Keep repeating this little trick and the flight will go more quickly, I promise you. Well, it works for me.

Of course, your flight doesn't really go more quickly unless you are on Concorde. But I can never seem to get a booking these days.

Otherwise, you need a plane with a view. Do those lovely Empire flying boats still fly to Cairo?

Diminishing conclusion

2011-01-26T17:22:00.000Z

Kathie's husband Graham writes:

I'm not sure where these words came from. They came out of my head, but how did they get in there in the first place? Perhaps the fresh Orkney air is making me dizzy. Whatever, here are those words...

Diminishing conclusion

Suddenly, countless hours after they left the city, there it was in front of them. Roger let out a low whistle under his breath. He had never seen anything like it. Alan, with a hint of relief in his voice, said: "We should be home by nightfall."

Suddenly, countless hours after they left the city, there it was in front of them. Roger let out a low whistle under his breath. He had never seen anything like it. Alan, with a hint of relief in his voice, said: "We should be home."

Suddenly, countless hours after they left the city, there it was in front of them. Roger let out a low whistle under his breath. He had never seen anything like it. Alan, with a hint of relief in his voice.

Suddenly, countless hours after they left the city, there it was in front of them. Roger let out a low whistle under his breath. He had never seen anything like it. Alan.

Suddenly, countless hours after they left the city, there it was in front of them. Roger let out a low whistle under his breath. He had never seen.

Suddenly, countless hours after they left the city, there it was in front of them. Roger let out a low whistle under.

Suddenly, countless hours after they left the city, there it was in front of them. Roger let out.

Suddenly, countless hours after they left the city, there.

Suddenly, countless hours.

Suddenly.

Sud.

S.

A promise that will be kept

2011-01-04T11:43:00.000Z

Welcome to 2011. New Year, fresh start and all that. 2010 was such a momentous year of change for Graham and I that I'm actually hoping this year, for us, will be one of settling in and settling down for a bit.

I'm starting to feel that nudging itch to start recording again. But I've been so busy with our move from London to Orkney and sorting out the house and unpacking that I haven't done much writing. Now that things are calming down a bit I hope to get on with that.

I wrote in a previous entry wondering how the long, dark Orkney winter we kept being warned about would affect us. We've made it past the Solstice and out the other side, and so far the darkness hasn't been a problem for us.

We have been blessed with many beautiful sunny, bright days and that makes a difference. I think if we had weeks of dull grey skies it would seem more oppressive. Terry Pratchett wrote a wonderful description of this type of sky as like being inside a Tupperware bowl looking up through the lid. I don't like those kind of skies.

The biggest excitement of winter so far was, of course, the early snowfalls which led to us being snowed in for the first time. We are down a reasonably long track on the face of a hill, so there were days when the roads were clear but our track had four foot drifts across it. The farmer who owns all the land around our house regularly ploughs the track out, so that's been a big help.

There is something almost comforting about being snowed in. Graham and I are both lucky enough that there is nowhere we must be at any given time, so once we got over the initial alarm, we learned to relax into it. We can walk to the local shop, so supplies can be bought. We have a larder stuffed with enough food to last us most likely till next winter, a nice fireplace, a gas cooktop and a DVR which is so full of programmes that we could watch it around-the-clock for months and not run out.

My list of winter projects isn't going down very fast, but I'm enjoying working away at it. I'm teaching myself to play fiddle and the results are excruciating but pleasantly challenging.

Living farther north than I ever have, the Solstice was particularly of interest to me this year. I got up before sunrise, which for once wasn't too much of a chore as the sun didn't clear the hills across the valley till after 9.00. I watched out the kitchen window as the lunar eclipse reached totality and turned the shadowy moon a rosy pink. It sunk behind the hill and I wandered to the front window to watch the sunrise. This was less successful as it began to get light hours before the sun actually made it above the horizon, and I'm afraid I didn't actually wait for the exact moment.

It was breathlessly still, the valley below us draped in fog. While I waited, watching as the snow turned pink with blue shadows, I thought about the significance of the sunrise on this day and what it might have meant to the people who used to live over the hill from us, 5,000 years ago. It must have been momentous, an overwhelming feeling of relief to know that the days would now lengthen, first slowly, then increasing in pace to the Equinox in Spring.

It's interesting to me that the societies I've lived in seem to have lost this connection. With instant light at the flip of a switch, we perhaps don't notice the lengthening of the days unless you are above a certain latitude where it becomes more important. Christmas has supplanted the older Pagan holiday that honoured the return of the light with the birth of the Light of the World.

But in the frenzy of Christmas nowadays, the day of the Solstice passes unnoticed for most people as they frantically get in the last gifts and groceries and write those last few cards. I think it would be good for us to reconnect with this special moment, even if it's just a brief pause to acknowledge the shift in the year.

It felt good to stand and watch the lightening sky, the sweep of a skein of geese climbing into the light. Nearly risen, the sun was blazing colours across the sky of peach, rose and pale blue. Gradually buildings emerged from the mist as it dissipated.

It set the scene for a beautiful day, which ended almost as spectacularly with a stunning sunset.

January the First has been chosen as the day when the calendars say we're at the start of a New Year. But to me the Winter Solstice feels more like a beginning, a return to where we started a year ago, with the promise of Spring still distant and Summer almost unimaginable.

But just this morning I walked out and noticed the pale green points of crocus emerging from the hard, cold ground. Though we still have many weeks of cold, storms and probably snow to get through, it feels satisfying and reassuring to know that those little bits of green are a promise that Nature will keep. A promise that starts with the sun rising at the Winter Solstice.

Happy New Year.

Kathie Touin

Anyone here speak jazz?

2010-12-05T19:01:00.000Z

I don't speak jazz. That's what I've claimed for years. I understand it to a large degree, I can analyse a tune, re-harmonise chord progressions and work out substitute dominants and ii V I progressions but it's not a language I'm fluent in as a player.

Last night I watched an Arena programme on the excellent BBC Four channel in honour of Dave Brubeck's 90th birthday. As hard as it is to admit, I haven't listened to or played jazz in years, so I came to this programme almost with fresh ears. Throughout I was struck by his lush and beautiful chord voicings. I'm not sure this had ever really registered with me, and I found this startling.

I arrived at jazz via progressive rock. My early piano lessons were classically based, and on my own I messed around with learning Beatles songs and other rock and pop music, working out the chords more or less from where they were written above the piano music for guitar.

After the fateful night when I first heard Keith Emerson tearing furiously through a live version of Take A Pebble, on a King Biscuit Flower Hour radio programme, I immersed myself in progressive rock. While the classical influences were immediately obvious in most keyboardists of this genre, it was Emerson's more subtle jazz influences that caught my ear. I decided I needed to learn to play jazz in order to understand what he was doing.

During my high school years I was blessed with a brilliant genius of a private teacher who had started his professional music life as a concert pianist and then veered off into playing in jazz ensembles. He was the perfect catalyst for my now obsessive desire to be GOOD.

He introduced me to the fundamentals of jazz, including improvisation which helped my prog-rock leanings immeasurably. This in turn led me to apply to the Berklee College of Music in Boston, Massachusetts, which I attended straight out of high school.

When I arrived at Berklee, I was immediately out of my depth and knew it - this was a Serious Jazz School. It's a brilliant place and those years were the toughest and most exhilarating of my entire life. But I never could quite get my head around jazz - the approach was technical but in a way I didn't understand. I loved the harmony classes but couldn't find this cohesion in the tunes. I decided I didn't have a natural knack for jazz and just got on with learning what I could apply to the direction I was headed musically.

Then, as with most musicians around that I age I would guess, it was all about technique and chops (skill) for me. When learning how to solo, we were taught what notes you could use to solo in which keys, what chords were 'allowed' to go with which modes... I didn't want this - I just wanted to play. Of course, a musician needs tools and a vocabulary to pull from, especially when improvising. But I felt this was all too clinical and just used what seemed useful (as well as doing what I had to do to avoid being graded down).

The serious jazz players there practised licks endlessly. One horn player used to wander around the halls of the dorm, which unusually was a pentagonal shape, so you could literally go around in near-circles, practising lick after lick. My roommate and I would hear him go by and say, 'Ah, that's lick number 218.' The next time he came around - 'Oh, that must be lick number 35.' I was never any good at memorising and it was beyond me how these players could store up entire catalogues of these musical phrases to be trotted out at will.

So there were things in this jazz world I couldn't relate to, and I retreated more and more, to the point that for years after I left the college I didn't even listen to jazz, let alone play it. Don't get me wrong, this is not a reflection on Berklee, this is just me. I've never liked to be dictated to and, as music is such an intensely personal thing, I probably shut out some of the instruction that might have helped me had it not collided with my stubborn determination to do things my own way.

After years with jazz music being on the periphery of my life, I watched this programme about Dave Brubeck. And what really struck me about his playing, even though I have seen him in concert and listened to his music years ago, was the beauty and complexity of his chord voicings.

I've always thrived on harmony. From being a ten year old trying to work out all the harmonies to The Beatles' songs, to immersing myself in modal harmony at Berklee, to working out the arrangements and backing vocal tracks to my own CDs, it's been a constant source of fascination and inspiration for me.

After the programme ended last night, I sat for a moment and wondered if maybe I'd always approached jazz all wrong. What would happen if I forgot about the 'right' way to solo or comp and just approached it harmonically? Comping - playing chords under lead lines - was always a weak point for me. I could voicelead - get from one chord to the next - but I couldn't make the stuff happening underneath the solo sound at all interesting. Maybe this has been the problem all along.

So I'm going to dig out those CDs which have been languishing for so long, dig out some tunes, and spend some time playing around with chords. Who knows? Maybe I'll discover that I can speak jazz. At least conversationally. And that might be enough.

Kathie Touin

Keeping it real - the power of local media

2010-11-03T16:24:00.001Z

Kathie's husband Graham writes...

In the past week one of the big news stories in Orkney, where Kathie and I live, has been the closure of the weekly newspaper Orkney Today.

Orkney Today launched seven years ago and is, or rather was, a bright and lively publication which was involved in the community.

Now it has closed The Orcadian is once again Orkney's only weekly newspaper, as it was between 1961 - after the closure of the Orkney Herald - and 2003.

But this is not all bad news - The Orcadian, though different in style to Orkney Today, is also very much involved in the community and its reports are thorough and detailed. It also has a great weekly cartoon: Alex Leonard's The Giddy Limit. In short, it is what I would call a proper local newspaper.

Given that Orkney only has a population of about 20,000, and that Orkney Today and The Orcadian had become part of the same company in May 2007, the closure of one of the newspapers seemed inevitable.

I believe in Orkney, while regretting the closure of Orkney Today, and most definitely feeling for those who have lost their jobs, we should be thankful to retain one proper local newspaper. Many places do not have one.

We certainly did not have one in Ealing, West London where Kathie and I lived before Orkney. The Ealing Gazette did not have enough journalists to cover such a large densely populated area properly. Many of its articles were shared with other newspapers in the group and therefore were not directly relevant to folk in Ealing.

And here in Orkney we do not just have The Orcadian. We have Living Orkney, the Orkney Advertiser, BBC Radio Orkney, the Superstation and a number of local websites and bloggers. For those who don't live here, I'll explain.

Living Orkney is a monthly full-colour glossy magazine and an enjoyable read. How many other communities of Orkney's size can boast such a magazine?

The Orkney Advertiser is a pocket-sized publication of small ads, distributed free in shops across Orkney, which allows small businesses without a big budget to advertise and reach customers.

Radio Orkney is an opt-out service from BBC Radio Scotland and provides, I believe, a fantastic service with its 30-minute breakfast show, each weekday at 7.30am, Around Orkney.

The show is essential listening for residents in Orkney to find out about the latest news, weather and community events. It also gives listeners a chance to express their opinions and allows many folk to discuss their projects, charities and ideas on-air.

In addition Radio Orkney broadcasts a weekly Friday night request show - anything from Lady Gaga to Farmer Dan's My John Deere Tractor (something of a regular).

And during the winter months Radio Orkney broadcasts a series of other programmes highlighting local music, arts, history and language.

Then there is The Superstation Orkney, the community radio station. The station has lively pop music shows and gives local businesses a chance to advertise on the radio.

But, for me, the station, though enthusiastically run, is not involved enough in the local community. Personally I cannot recall having seen Superstation staff in the local press, or at local events, in the six months I have been here. Nor do local folk seem to appear on the station to talk about what is happening.

The presenters, and the music played, could be from a local commercial radio station almost anywhere in the UK. This seems in contrast to, say, Cuillin FM on the Isle of Skye which has a programme line-up that relates to Skye.

That said, although I've been a print journalist, and a BBC press officer and web editor, I've never run a radio station.

So, six months on, Kathie and I love our new lives in Orkney. And one of the aspects we really appreciate and applaud is our local media. Thank you to everyone involved in running these services.

Graham Brown

Links:
The Orcadian
Orkney Today
BBC Radio Orkney: Around Orkney
The Superstation Orkney
Cuillin FM

Halloween Is Upon Us

2010-10-24T18:41:00.000+01:00

My Mom, Bettie Twa, just came across a newspaper cutting of a Halloween poem she wrote and had published some years ago. As the big night approaches, I thought it would be fun to reproduce the poem here on my blog...

Halloween Is Upon Us
by Bettie Twa

When witches are seen
Riding across the moon
And vapors of fairie dust
Flow from their brooms

You'll know it's the time
When goblins appear
In strange garments and masks.
You've nothing to fear.

Grant them their wishes
And to your delight
They'll vanish away
In the darkness of night.

You'll know in your heart
Without any doubt
Your wishes come true.
There's magic about!

Trick of the light

2010-09-23T18:12:00.000+01:00

It's the Autumn Equinox today, also known as Mabon in some circles. That time of year when day and night are equal, and we are staring down the long, dark Winter ahead.

It's particularly relevant to me this year, as my husband and I are now living further north than we ever have, up here in the beautiful Orkney Islands off the north-east coast of Scotland.

I'd heard and read of the near-mythical Equinoctial storms that batter the region at this time of year, and seemingly on cue a few weeks ago the gales arrived. After a short break at the beginning of the week to give us a breathtaking early Autumn day, they seem to be back, this time out of the north.

There is a cold bite to the wind's edge now, and just this morning I dragged out last winter's sweaters from their hiding places.

I don't mind cold weather. I love being bundled up in thick warm jumpers, with pretty scarves and cosy gloves. I look ridiculous in hats, but on they go anyway. Any excuse to wear coats and boots for me.

Autumn has always been my favourite time of year, and I've been lucky enough to enjoy the season in different places.

I loved the crisp, cerulean blue skies of my childhood in California, crunching sycamore leaves underfoot while stalking the neighbourhood Trick-or-Treating on Halloween. Two Falls spent in Boston, Massachusetts, in a part of the country renowned for its stunning autumn foliage displays, where the nip in the air hinted at the bitter cold to come. Then Washington, with its own display of colour mixed among the evergreens, was more misty than I was used to. To London, which is a greener city than many; I would find the most enormous tree leaves in gold and red just along the pavement from our flat.

And now here. A friend warned me that Autumn here mostly consists of the trees turning brown for a few days before all the leaves blow off. I suspect she could be right. But I'm holding out hope. There are more trees here than people realise, and I've saved one of our woodland walks (yes, I did say woodland) for Autumn, in hopes of brightly-coloured crunchy leaves underfoot.

And though the Equinox is described as the start of Autumn, we all know it looks more to the winter than the summer at this time of the year.

This year winter is more of an unknown quantity for us. We are far enough north that, as I understand it, by the Winter Solstice it will be getting light around nine in the morning, and dark by four in the afternoon. I'm intrigued by this. Not worried, just fascinated. What will it be like? I think I might like it.

I wrote a song for the my last CD, Dark Moons & Nightingales, called the Dark Season, and this was exactly what it dealt with. The idea that winter is a time for 'going in', whether indoors, or inward as a person or artist. I like my seasons, and I like the idea of having part of the year where I'm out doing things, and part of the year where I'm holed up working on more 'inner' things. This could be writing songs, reading, learning some new classical pieces on the piano, working on the computer, I might dabble in some painting, or learn to work my new sewing machine... I don't know yet. I have a long list.

To my surprise, I've been informed that winter is when the real social season gets going in Orkney. Because it's a farming community, traditionally in the summer people would have been too busy to socialise. But once the crops and animals are in and the fields are resting, there is time to reconnect with the community.

Obviously there are many people here who aren't farmers, but it seems to be a tradition that's carried on. I was saying to a friend that things should quiet down a bit now that summer was ending and I'd be able to catch my breath. She laughed and said, "Oh, no, it only really gets going in the winter here!"

I like this idea. Winter may be dark, cold and long where you are, or it may be as it was when I lived in California and we would get heat-waves and be running around in shorts for part of the winter.

But living somewhere more in the 'dark and cold' category, I relish the thought of seeing lights lit in the houses across the valley, knowing that people we know are tucked up inside by the fire or the telly or the computer. And then we emerge, meet, laugh, drink a bit, say goodbye and retreat back to our cosy homes.

To me the best part of a cold winter's day is stumbling in the door, breathless and red-cheeked, peeling off the layers, making up a hot drink and curling up in front of a cheery fire. The best part of being cold is getting warm again.

Does this mean the best thing about winter is knowing that summer is ahead? It could be that by the end of this one I'll probably think so. But just now I'm not sure. Every season is special and has something good about it.

The Equinox is about the balance of day and night, dark and light. Getting the balance right is the trick. Up here, I wonder, is it a trick of the light? We shall see.

Kathie Touin

We rescue a mallimack and feel all warm and fuzzy

2010-09-14T09:09:00.000+01:00

Saturday evening was beautiful - calm, with blue skies after heavy rain earlier in the day. We were driving from home to Stromness on the main road, looking forward to a concert of young musicians.

Roughly halfway there, my eye was caught by a white bird, huddled on the opposite verge, just inches away from the tarmac. Something clicked in my head as we passed it, and I said to Graham: "It's a fulmar!"

Fulmars are seabirds, a type of petrel. Petrels are described as 'tube noses' because of the peculiar appendage above their beak which helps them smell prey and filter sea water from their food. Fulmars are known by Orcadians as mallimacks. As with all petrels, their legs are set far back on their body so that they are essentially useless on land, which they only visit to nest and rear chicks.

Sometimes the birds mistake puddles or glistening roads for deeper water. They land, then find they can't get airborne again, as they need a good run across the buoyant surface of the water to lift off. They can't fly or walk and are stuck.

This one needed to be moved to water, and quickly, as it was so close to the road it only needed to flop forward a few inches and it would get run over.

Graham stopped the car, reversed, and parked along the verge. We rummaged in the boot and found an old shower-proof jacket of mine. Petrels have a defence mechanism that involves spewing out a foul, oily, fishy liquid when threatened, and I hoped desperately this one wouldn't do so in the car. I could always throw away the jacket but not the car.

As we closed the boot, a car following behind us swung wide to give us a clear berth, skimming the edge of the opposite verge and coming terrifyingly close to the bird. I saw it flinch as the breeze from the car's passing nearly knocked it over.

Quickly but carefully I approached it so that if it tried to move away it would go further into the grass. It gave one half-hearted attempt to push itself away with its nearly useless legs, then gave up and looked hopelessly up at me.

Talking softly, I gently dropped the jacket over it, then picked it up around the body, noticing that it felt heavy and fat, which was a relief. It seemed to be a healthy bird, just in the wrong place. I wrapped the jacket carefully around its body and lay part of the jacket over its face, holding it loosely around its neck, just as I would have done with an aggressive parrot years ago.

It struggled a bit, but I was able to hold it, and I gingerly crossed the road with the bird clutched in my arms. I got in the car and we headed for the nearest beach, which happened to be the one near our house.

We drove for five minutes, with the bird occasionally kicking me in the stomach with its feet, and biting furiously on the jacket, which was fine by me. It wasn't chewing on me, at least, and it meant that it still had some fight left!

It was a very well-behaved bird and didn't spew anything nasty at me, though I suspect it tried once and maybe didn't have anything left after its earlier fright.

We finally arrived at the beach. I picked my way through the piles of lovely rounded stones until we got to the sand, then walked down to the water. The bird had become quite still and I panicked thinking it had succumbed to the stress, but then it started chewing on the jacket again and gave me a kick.

I eased back the top flap of jacket covering the bird's face so it could get its bearings, and we got our first good look at it since I picked it up. Fulmars have lovely faces. They always look to me like they're wearing smudged eye shadow. I stroked its head, noticing how thick the feathers were on top, then, oblivious to my nice leather ankle boots and dressy jeans, I stepped into the water, and carefully eased the bundle down.

I pulled aside the bottom layer of the jacket to free the bird's feet, then set it in the water and eased the rest of the jacket away. It flapped a bit to get its balance, then started paddling furiously away from us.

I suggested if we left then we could still make the concert, but Graham said we should stay and make sure it got away okay, which made me happy.

We watched it swim against the incoming tide at a remarkable pace. Once or twice it tried its wings as if to fly, but I think it was exhausted and it settled for swimming out to sea until from the shore we could no longer make out even a white speck.

We stayed for a few more minutes marvelling at the beautiful sunset, noticing a seal who had evidently been watching the proceedings, before eventually heading home. I was sorry to miss the concert, but felt that nothing could match the warm fuzzy feeling of helping a creature to safety that must surely have otherwise died.

Man On Horseback - a short story

2010-08-29T19:40:00.001+01:00

This is not strictly my blog. First, Graham posts blogs. Now, we have a short story written by my father, Gordon Twa. Thanks Dad! His story is called Man On Horseback...

Man On Horseback

I had been climbing steadily since I refueled at Camptonville. I needed at least ninety-five hundred feet to clear Horseback Ridge, the highest point on this leg. The air was a little rough because of the terrain which was a series of ridges running north and south. There was nowhere to land in that mess.

This was the time all pilots experience the automatic rough engine. I checked the gauges: cylinder head temp in the green... oil pressure in the green... fuel tanks both almost full... the little six-cylinder engine seemed to be purring beautifully. Once clear of Horseback it was only about a half-hour flight and all downhill to Hamilton Meadows.

I made this trip at least once a year. Bud Hamilton had built a log cabin and cleared the meadow for a landing strip about ten years ago. We usually met there at this time of the year to spend a week or so fishing and telling lies. Only this year there would be no Bud. He was still in the hospital recovering from a serious car accident.

Horseback Ridge appeared over the nose. It got its name from the swale in the middle and an outcropping of rock on the north end that resembled a horse’s rump. There was a clearing in the middle of the swale that gave the appearance of a saddle. I checked the altimeter and saw ninety-five hundred. I rolled in a little nose down trim to level off.

A few minutes later, I really did have a rough engine. It sputtered and shook then quit cold. I set the trim for best glide and worked the throttle with no results. I switched the magnetos through all three positions and back to ‘both’, again with no results. I tried giving it a shot of prime but still nothing. I pulled the nose up to slow the plane until the propeller stopped. That would gain me a little less drag. I searched the area looking for a smooth spot. The only possibility looked to be right on top of Horseback where there was a very small meadow surrounded by trees. It looked really small but it seemed to be the only place.

I centered the meadow in the windshield and put down a few degrees of flaps to hold the proper glide angle. I cinched up on my safety harness. As I approached the top of the trees around the clearing, I put down full flaps and dropped the left wing, kicked in full right rudder and slipped down into the clearing.

We hit hard and bounced. Then the ground came up again and, with the sound of dropping a truck-load of empty beer cans, we bounded across the clearing. The ground was rough. I picked out two large trees space about ten feet apart at the far side of the clearing and aimed for them. We didn’t seem to be slowing much. Just before the trees, there was a downed tree in my path. The nose gear was torn off with a great screech of metal. This was followed by the main gear. Then we were between the trees.

As the wings were torn from the plane, I was thrown hard into the harness and my head hit the top of the door frame. I saw stars and things turned red. I was only stunned for a moment and, when my vision cleared, we were stopped minus both wings. There was a strong smell of gasoline from the severed wing stubs and I felt a real sense of panic when the door wouldn’t open. I slammed my shoulder into it and it gave with moan of torn metal.

I stood outside and looked at the carnage. What was once a beautiful little airplane was now a pile of twisted metal. Hurrying I grabbed the camping gear from the rear seat and got everything well clear in case of fire.

From out in the clearing, I realized that the plane was buried out of sight under the trees. A search plane would never see it. I put my hand to my head and it came away bloody. I used a handkerchief to wipe away the blood and felt the wound. It didn’t seem to be too bad, although a serious lump was swelling but wasn’t bleeding that much.

Assured that the gear was safe, I figured I had better set up some way to signal a search plane. I hoped that the emergency locator beacon in the tail of the plane had really gone off. I dragged both wings into the center of the clearing and laid them in a cross configuration figuring that would signify that someone was alive down here. I tried to pull the tail of the airplane out into the clearing but it wouldn’t budge. I cleared away bits and
pieces or trees around the tail to aid the beacon.

Before things went so wrong I had noticed a green area at the north end of the meadow so headed in that direction. Sure enough there was a small spring coming out of the rocks. At least I wouldn’t die of thirst. I found a spot near the spring where there were few rocks and put all the gear there with plans to set up camp.

On the south side of the wings I built up three large fire-rings and stacked wood from the small trees I had mown down on landing. There was still gas in the torn wings and I fashioned a kind of a cup from a piece of a
fiberglass wingtip and dowsed the piles of wood with gasoline. I dug into the camp gear and got out a box of wood-matches and laid them out ready if I heard an airplane. I also put the signal mirror into my shirt pocket.

I was ready. Now all I needed was someone to rescue me.

The only persons who knew where I was were my wife and Jim Ferguson at Camptonville. Neither would start worrying for at least a week. I had not filed a flight plan from Camptonville since radio communication in these mountains was nil. There would be no way of closing out the flight plan.

Thinking of the radio, I decided it might be worth a try since I was high on this ridge. I crawled back into the twisted fuselage and turned on the master-switch. Nothing. The crash had evidently either destroyed the battery or severed the wiring. With no tools there wasn’t much I could do.

It was getting late by now. The sun was a red ball balancing on the peak of mountain far to the west. I got busy setting up camp. At this altitude it would get cold at night. I had plenty of food as I was bringing in supplies to last for at least ten days. The problem was I had nothing to cook in or eat with except my trusty Leatherman all-purpose knife.

I went back to the crash site and scrounged around among the pile of twisted metal and came up with some scraps that I could use to cook on and eat off. I gathered a supply of dry wood from under the trees and made a rock-fireplace. I was set for the evening.

An airliner passed overhead heading south with its tail of white contrail glowing in the setting sun. I envied them their comfort.

Using a rock I was able to bash a sort of a bowl or pot so I could at least heat some water. I dug out one of the cup of noodle things from the food pile and heated water in my new utensil. Never had a cup of noodles followed by a cup of hot tea tasted so good.

That night I lay, warm in my sleeping bag, and gazed at the stars. With no light pollution of the city, they looked like you could reach up and pick them. That was one of the great things about getting up here in the mountains. Several satellites meandered across the sky.

When I awoke the next morning, my body complained bitterly about its treatment the day before. There was a thin coating of white frost on the sleeping bag. A fire and a cup of tea using the cup of noodles container for a cup and my multipurpose cooking utensil got the day off to a fine start.

Would someone come looking? That was the question of the day. I didn’t remember what they told me about the emergency locator beacon but I didn’t think it would last very long. I checked my signal fires to be sure they were ready.

Late in the day I was beginning to think that my only option would be to try to walk out. I had always been told to stay with the wreck when that occurs but if I waited too long there would not be sufficient supplies to make it to the nearest highway. I figured it would take at least a week of hard hiking to reach highway 79 which was to the east of here.

Late in the day, four fingers between the sun and the top of the mountains, meaning an hour before the sun set, I thought I heard the sound of a light plane. I scanned the sky. Nothing. The sound faded then I heard it
returning. A search pattern, I hoped. I grabbed the matches and quickly got all three fires going. Once the dry wood caught, I started adding green boughs. There was little wind so the three columns of smoke rose almost vertically. Come on. Find me. I stood in the center by the wings with a white tee-shirt ready for them. The sound faded again.

Now the sound returned and seemed even louder. I piled on more green stuff. Then the sun sparked a flash of reflection just to the east of me. I started waving the shirt even though I knew he was too far away to seem yet.

Come on. Come on. See me. Please.

It was a Cesna just like the one buried in the trees and he was coming straight for me. I shouted and waved the shirt. He swooped low over me and waggled his wings as he pulled up. He made one more pass then headed back to the east. It would be too late to get a chopper in today but at least I could go to sleep knowing that I was sure to be rescued the next day. The only little nag – suppose the weather closed in?

The next morning dawned beautiful and clear. About ten I heard the first faint popping of rotor blades and soon, amid a whirl of dust rocks and bits and pieces of airplane, the rescue copter settled into the clearing.

No longer was there a man on Horseback.

Gordon Twa, August 2010

For more of Gordon's short stories: go to www.kathietouin.com and click on Short Stories.

A magical time with the winged night visitors

2010-07-29T13:08:00.000+01:00

I started this blog as a way to write about my music. But it's become a place to write about what inspires my music and, lately, much of this inspiration seems to be feathered, as any of you who have heard my latest CD, Dark Moons & Nightingales, won't fail to notice.

When I went to buy my first pet bird, a cockatiel, he was placed on my shoulder and immediately began preening my hair. I was entranced. My fascination with birds seems to have built from there.

In the song The Solace of Birds I describe the title as being:
"a trust that hurts
something so small you could crush it with a sigh
It will stay there and hold fast, secure in the knowledge
that to damage one feather would make your soul die"

I was trying to communicate the incredible feeling I got from holding the tiny parrotlet I used to have, and having him look back at me with such complete and utter trust. He was a little thing, 25 grams, vulnerable in this world of human giants, but he seemed to know that he was safe with me. This is quite a feeling, even with the bigger parrots who can defend themselves to some degree. It brings a sense of grave responsibility, along with the sheer delight of this special connection to an almost-wild creature.

Obviously a wild bird would know nothing of this, leaving aside differences in intelligence types and levels. So anyone whose work with wild birds involves handling them must be specially trained and know how to do so with the least amount of stress to the bird, and without the risk of injuring them.

Last Friday night, I was privileged to join a night-time RSPB outing to watch storm petrels being ringed so they can be tracked, helped and conserved.

The storm petrel is a surprisingly small bird, with thin legs set so far back on its body that it can barely walk on its tiny webbed feet. It spends its life on the wing at sea and only comes ashore to nest in the summer months. There are breeding populations among the islands in Orkney, though none on Mainland, the largest island. In the winter it flies an astonishing distance from here to South Africa. Because it can't manoeuvre on land very well it is vulnerable to predators, so only comes ashore at night. They have a strange, eerie, chattering call that must have frightened people before they knew what was making it.

The Mainland RSPB warden, Alan Leitch, led the venture, and we were joined by several people including other wardens, RSPB employees and volunteers who had been trained, or were just learning, to ring birds, as well as those who came along to watch, as my husband and I had. I'm not sure how thrilled Graham was by the idea of perching out on a clifftop in the wee small hours of the morning watching people catch birds, but he gamely went along.

Mist nets were set up, and a recording of storm petrel and leach's petrel calls was played in a continuous loop on (Alan's children's) CD player. The leach's petrel chuckling calls are a bit louder than the storm petrels, but even the relatively quiet and frankly bizarre calls of the storm petrels apparently carry well over the water. Even though this isn't a nesting area, the birds are attracted out of curiosity to find out why there are a group of them on this unfamiliar cliff.

We scrambled down a small slope to the flat rocks just below the clifftop and crouched in a little niche among the rocks to one side where we could wait for the birds to arrive. It was surprisingly warm sitting down there out of the light breeze, and I ended up taking off my coat and even my embarrassing ear-flap hat that has become a necessary part of life on Orkney.

At 11pm when we set out for this part of the cliffs it was still light in the northern sky. By midnight, when we settled down to wait, it had gone as dark as I've seen it so far this year, with just a thin band of light fading into the sea to the north.

As Alan had predicted, half-an-hour after the recording started playing, he went along to the check the nets, and came back delighted, holding a tiny storm petrel carefully in his hand.

He leaned down and held the bird so we could all see it, gently fanning its wing so we could see how its primary flight feathers were so long they extended past its wedge-shaped tail. In protest, the bird promptly spewed a burst of liquid from its beak, which fortunately landed on the rock and not on any of us. This is a form of petrel self-defence, and one well-known to anyone who has upset a fulmar near its nest!

Even though I knew it would be a small bird, I was still surprised to see just how tiny it was, swallow-like, but even smaller. My parrotlet was just bigger than my thumb, but this little bird weighed four grams less than him. They have a strange protrubence above their beak, which all petrels share, classifying them as a 'tube nose'. As I understand it, they use this tube to help smell prey, and also have a gland just above it that helps them filter out the extra saline they take in eating small sea creatures and fish.

Alan is brilliant at explaining things to people, and very good about letting people have hands-on experience. It requires a licence to ring birds, and the people in our party working towards their licence were able to get more experience by ringing the petrels' spindly legs.

It was interesting to watch the process, as the birds were carefully ringed and their wing length measured. They were weighed in an undignified manner by being placed head downwards in a soft plastic sheath, and then suspended from a spring-loaded scale. As the night wore on, the weights recorded seemed to increase by a few grams; Alan said this was because the birds had been feeding.

It's hard to describe how it felt to be out there. For years I've dreamed of finding a place to live to which I connected, body and soul. Sitting on the edge of that low cliff, just above the rocks where the Atlantic waves rushed and murmured on this quiet night, watching the faded glow of the sun make its slow and patient way along the edge of the horizon, never quite disappearing, felt very profound. I felt rooted, and grounded, content and happy just to be there.

This would have been enough but Alan allowed us amateurs, under supervision, to hold the birds and place them carefully on a high rock to let them go. It was lovely to see the wonder on the others' faces as they held such a wild creature for what was possibly the first time. I was thrilled when Alan asked me if I wanted to let the next one go.

Some of our party had to leave after a couple of hours but we had stayed on along with Alan and two other RSPB folk. Not long after, we seemed to have a flurry of birds finding the nets, so I ended up setting a number of them free, while the experts were fetching the birds, weighing and measuring and ringing them.

Some of the released birds flopped forward determinedly and flew off almost at once, while others seemed to need to recover for a few moments and find their bearings. I could just make them out on top of the rock where they'd been placed, looking around them. Alan instructed me to put them up high enough where they could see the lighthouse to the west on the Brough of Birsay, and the one to the east on the island of Westray. Birds use a remarkable combination of elements to navigate by, so lighthouses wouldn't surprise me a bit!

For most of the time it was so dark that the only way I could tell the storm petrels were flying off was by a dim blur of movement from their white rumps and wing bars. One little bird seemed particularly reluctant to go, and spent a few minutes perched on my thumb where my hand lay on the rock. It was so delightful to feel its tiny webbed feet resting on me - pure magic. Again, that trust thing, though of course this little bird was just resting - it had no idea if it could trust me or not, but even so I wouldn't have disturbed it for the world. Alan eventually said it would be fine, I could leave it there, but I was happy to be its resting spot for those few minutes and didn't move.

From around 2am it began to lighten in the north-east, gradually moving eastwards. The birds became fewer as it became lighter, the nets were becoming visible even to us, so it was getting less likely the birds would come in.

Finally Alan handed me a tiny bird that we guessed would probably be the last one. I cupped it carefully in both hands and stepped up to put it on the rock and let it go.

Now I have an embarrassing confession to make, which will probably lower my standing in the opinions of proper bird people everywhere: just before I placed the petrel on the rock, I gave it the softest little kiss on its head and whispered 'good luck on your journey back to Africa'. It comes from having very cuddly parrots - kissing a bird doesn't seem like an odd thing to do! So, apologies, Alan. I hope I can still be taken seriously as a bird enthusiast.

The nets and CD player were packed up, as it became light enough to see by, and we scrambled back up to the top of the cliff. Alan and his sleepy son kindly gave Graham and I a lift back to our car, and we headed home.

I had to take two naps the next day, after sleeping in very late in the morning, but it was worth it. I seem to have lost the knack of musician's hours but I might just have to get them back with opportunities to experience amazing nights like this.

So thank you to the RSPB, to Alan and everyone there that night, and to those amazing little birds who will be winging their way to the south of Africa in a few short weeks. Thanks to all of you, I was able to experience something truly magical.

Kathie Touin