Things are much improved. Tosher's Fury Fairy broke camp and left Ayr last night. I can't say where they went, but I wouldn't shed a tear to see them all bound for Heck - if you catch my meaning. The uncomfortable pressure of their "visit" led to strained relationships here that won't soon be repaired. Feel free to shout 'for Ayrshire' as you meet them on the field and blunt their pointy heads.

Yours,
Buckminster

This is what the BBC email looks like.

This is what the BBC email looks like.

I was recently asked to comment on an online back up soltution. This is my response:

1. How much data do I NEED to back up and does it exceed the disk quota of my online or hardware back up system?
2.  What data do I need to back up? My Documents is great but if you use Quicken or another program that stores data somewhere else on the hard drive then you have to be sure to configure whatever solution you use properly.
3. Do I need portability? IE. I want to be able to physically take my data with me. What if the online solution requires software to be loaded onto another computer in order to work? You want to consider device independence. Some hardware solutions offer this. Carbonite and other online solution providers may require software to be installed on the local computer and you may need the owner's permission or the computer rights are set up not to allow you to do this.
4. What are the advantages and disadvantages for each solution?

1. An external hard drive of no LESS that 160 GB. Advantages: shared amongst more than one computer. Some portability depending on model. Capacity. Disadvantages: May not be portable. Expensive compared to online subscription initially.
2. A USB key with good back up software. Specifically SanDisk Cruzer with the CruzerSync software. Advantages:  Dead easy to set up. Small and portable. Can be used easily on other computers. Disadvantages: Size...small and can be lost. Capacity cost compared to external hard drive.
3. Online back up. Advantages:  Can be automated. Can be transferable between computers. Disadvantages: Software needed to be installed on other computers in order to work. Cost per GB. 4 GB is nothing these days.

Blog about problems with Carbonite.

Comparison matrix

Couple of photos from Ayr beach, including one of me without a beard. Shaved it off on the Friday, knowing I had a week to grow it back before heading back to work. This will be the one and only photo you see of me like this.[gallery]

I love this entry:

All versions of Norton Anything are completely incompatible with Norton AnythingElse. Searching the Symantec support site, you'll see that there are more entries there for REMOVING their products after something's gone wrong than for any other issue. Multiple uninstallers must be downloaded, and pieces can still be left behind.

CrapWare all the way! All versions and all variations of Norton and Symantec software must be removed with all due prejudice!

LOL!

The state of the Wintel/XP/Vista industry is a shambles. Seriously, I get paid to wade through the minutia of the various intricacies of computer maintenance and ownership and I am pleased to do so. But there has to be a better way. I do not think that certain aspects of computer ownership are properly communicated to computer owners. The issues of OEM versions of XP/Vista and the impact to a client if they have a problem and do NOT go to a OEM service provider often cause problems and additional expense.

In one particular case, the non-OEM service provider (whom will remain nameless in this post) did not adequately address their client's needs. They simply and correctly should not have fixed the laptop. They did thereby incurring an additional expense for the user and may have made it even more difficult to solve future operating system problems. The work order description is simply inadequate. No traceability of the work completed can be done. "Back up documents. Re-install Windows." just does not cut it. I will add a redacted version of a work report sometime to give an idea of what is adequate.

We have a duty to communicate and assist our clients. The industry has to do a better job of making computer ownership easier. Frankly, the out-of-the-box experience for low knowledge users is in a sorry state.

Tuesday, we had a visit from a Sodexho staff member to do a "Gold Check" standard on the AYR Room Service program.  All in all, we had a great score...we got a gold, which is next to unheard of to achieve in 2 months.  However, she nit-picked all of my computer program and just really beat me up.  That is all I am going to say, because I don't want red ears all over again (Godchicks----you know what I mean! He!He!).

Today, was spent fixing more problems. My outpatient that absolutely had to get in this week to see me failed to show up at his 7:00 am appointment this morning and didn't bother calling. So I rushed around this morning for nothing.  My mind is just worn out.  I am so glad that I am off Friday.  I need it after the week I have had.  Hopefully tomorrow will be easier, or at least easier on my mind.

Tonight's supper at church was awesome.  I am usually not a fan of meatloaf unless I make it myself, but it was really good.  The boys even ate it! And weeek 7 of The Patriarchs was awesome as well.  I can't wait to get into next week's homework.

Am Freitag war eigentlich gar nicht so viel los. Abends eine Party und tagsüber joggen und entspannen. Mehr fällt mir jetzt nicht mehr ein.

Samstag:

Am Samstag ging es gleich früh nach Edinburgh, eine echt tolle Stadt. Alles ziemlich alte Häuser und Kirchen und fast kleine Burgen...und natürlich das Edinburgh Castle. Leider war ich nicht drin, denn der Eintritt ist ziemlich teuer (8 Pfund für eine Gruppe).

Der hübsche Marc.^^

Und Alex am Parkbank-Sliden...

Wunderprächtig.^^

Keine guckt außer Laëtitia...

Eine riesen Auswahl an Scotch und Whisky. Wer was haben will, in Edinburgh gibt's fast alles...

Und natürlich konnte man auch mal probieren...

Auch der FC Bayern München ist in Edinburgh bekannt.

Und natürlich gibt's dort auch ein Hard Rock Cafe.

Alex mag es, Bilder zu machen, auf denen einer Springt.^^ Im Hintergrund das Edinburgh Castle.

Toller Blick über Edinburgh, leider auf dem Foto nicht ganz so gut zu sehen.

War ein echt toller Tag in Edinburgh, obwohl es am Anfang geregnet hat, aber wir hatten dann doch eine Menge Spaß.

Sonntag:

Samstag morgen haben wir eine Wandertour über den Berg gleich neben unserem Wohnheim gemacht. Fotos hab ich leider keine, da ich dachte wir joggen. Ist aber eine schöne Strecke, bergauf, bergab und der boden ist schön weich. Insgesamt sind wir 1h und 40min gelaufen.

Danach hab ich etwas Tischtennis gespielt und bin dann nochmal den Berg in 45min gejoggt, macht echt Spaß.

Und natürlich Abend wieder Treppenparty.^^

Montag:

Heute haben wir uns auf den Weg nach Ayr gemacht. Die Stadt liegt direkt am Wasser und mit unserem Busticket können wir dorthin fahren. Die Fahrt dauerte ungefähr eine Stunde aber dort war es echt geil. Irgendwie kommt mir das so vor, dass fast alle Küstenstädte gleich aussehen, denn Ayr hat mich sehr stark an die Städte auf Madeira erinnert.

Und natürlich waren wir auch baden. War zwar tierisch (das ist noch untertrieben) kalt aber wir haben es trotzdem gewagt. Mein erstes Mal baden dieses Jahr und dann auch noch in Schottland, erklär das mal einem.

Wieder einmal Laëtitia.

Und natürlich auch Alex...^^

Wie am Strand...

Und natürlich als Beweis, dass wir baden waren.^^

Hannes, José und Marco.

Und zu guter Letzt: die Rückfahrt. Der ganze Bus war voller Summer School Students...

Danach haben wir bis jetzt den ganzen Nachmittag und Abend Fussball gespielt und ich hatte gerade einen schöne kalte Dusche.

Ansonsten muss ich sagen, ist es hier echt hammer, die Leute sind cool, die Landschaft ist wunder schön und ich kann den ganzen Tag Sport machen. Das Einzige was mir hier fehlt ist mein Fahrrad.^^ Aber ich kann ja nicht alles haben. Ich rauche hier soar viel weniger: Erstens weil ich mehr Sport mache und zweitens weil die Kippen hier total teuer sind.^^

Alles klar, heute Abend werd ich spätestens um 24 Uhr ins Bett gehen (hoffe ich), denn morgen hab ich Unterricht und dann schreib ich die Tage wieder.

BB, Euer Matze...

I few days back, Edwardiv, a new vegetable farmer himself, and I decided to exchange work on each other's fields for a below-minimum wage. We sent an official letter to the Ayr Town Council, and received approval. Today, Edward posted the harvesting job at the alarmingly low rate of 12 pounds. I quickly accepted the offer since I didn't want others making a big deal of it. Even though we have permission from the Council, other citizens might not have been aware of it, and might complain.

Working Edward's field wasn't that bad. It was definitely easier than mine work. It also helped me learn more about the nuances of vegetable farming that should prove handy at my own place. I managed to pull in a decent crop. His field is arranged differently from mine, so it's hard to know how the respective yields will compare, but I think they're pretty much equal. In an interesting turn of events, while I worked Ed's field, he went to the mines. You know, maximization of labor and all that.

After work, I swung by the market and bought a few more bags of corn. Then, I poked into the C&B, which now become my official tavern of choice. At first, only Allorardagon and I were there. But, after a while, Drake_Roanoke popped in. I also met a fellow named Litherstorm. We all chatted for a while about town and dutchy matters. Allorardagon did become livid upon discovering the some bloke on the county council had made some trade deal that she felt was illegal. She was trying to convince Drake that this person should be sacked and prosecuted. We'll see how that turns out.

I spoke with Drake about the local vegetable market and my plans to buy a boat and fish in the next week or so. He said I and one other person had expressed an interest, so he'd put me down on the list he keeps of needful things. (I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but Drake travels around the dutchy a lot and purchases certain non-local goods for others in Ayr.)

Not long after this, Drake said goonight and departed. After this, the remaining patrons started filling out and making their ways home.

I had to depart early to work once more in the mines. But, the day passed quickly.

After work, I rushed to the Cock & Bull Tavern to announce my new status as a land barron. I was greeted with many congratulations. In addition to the usual patrons, I met a fellow named Mcmannanan, a professional traveller. He says he Scottish, raised in England. He kept the whole tavern entertained with tales of his travels and his past.

During one story, he indicated that the ghost of his dead mentor speaks to him in dreams sometimes. Hearing this made me recall that chilling dream from two nights ago. Visibly shaken, I proceeded to relay the dream to the others. Afterwards, Mcmannanan said it sounds like the almighty is telling me to become a physician.

Since the dream, I've been wondering if there was some higher purpose to my life. The church friar intimated that he felt so. In truth, I'd considered Mcmannanan's interpretation myself, but discounted it. Is it even possible? How does one become a physician? How long does it take? Is it expensive? Would I have to leave Ayr?

Thought like these kept me occupied for most of the evening. After some time, I came out of my thoughts and realized that most of the patrons had left for the evening. Kidcool, and Allorardagon were the only ones remaining. I said my "good nights" and was on my way.

Before turning in, I managed to scribble out a quick letter to one of the other town folk, Weinerschnitzel. Earlier the poor fellow had gotten so pissed that he had to be "helped" out of the C&B. Afterwards, a few others commented on the fellow's sad state. Apparently, he's been around town for a while and still not applied for property yet. They said that every cent he makes goes straight to the tavern. I figured a letter of encouragement might lift his obviously troubled spirits.

"Who will heed the call? Who will heal the people?"

I stood there watching him repeat his plea, 'till finally his gaze met mine...

... and I awoke.

Stunned and troubled by the dream, I lay in the hay pile that serves as my bed. As dawn approached, I decided to dress and meet the day, hoping to clear my head. I ate a portion of my last loaf of bread and decided to take inventory of my meager possessions. I counted £86 pounds and two bags of corn. Respectable.

I left my shack heading for the mines. I knew I'd need more money to keep up the farm land I intended to buy and mining pays well enough. As I passed through Ayr, my thoughts returned again to the dream. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Perhaps it was another product of my injury. Am I going mad?

"Coome back fir an'ther days labor n'the Laurd's Saurvice, 'ave yee?"

It was the church friar I'd worked for yesterday. I was about to ask him why he was at the mines until I noticed I was standing outside the church door. Deep in thought, I'd walked back to town, and into the church courtyard.

"Yes", I answered as I stepped inside.

Yesterday, as a left the church, I remember thinking two things:

1. there can't be a speck of dust left in that tiny church
2. I will never work there again

I was wrong on both counts. It seems that there's an unbelievably large cellar under the church that was probably last washed by Noah's flood. My entire day consisted of moving barrels, excavating corpses of unknown animals, killing vermin, removing their corpses as well, and sorting through several crates of used linens. The Lord's work, indeed. In fact, establishing mastery of the cellar and its contents was apparently so important, I wasn't even called to help with the church's lunch service.

Near the end of the day, as I brought up the last of the "clean" linens, the friar informed me that it was time to take alms to the needy. I'd been dreading this moment. Sensing my hesitation, the friar inquired if I had something to discuss. I proceeded to recount my dream and finished by asking if he believed it to be important. After some thought, he replied that he was no expert on dreams. He also revealed that he was aware of my head injury and the peculiarity it's caused. He finished by saying that although he wasn't certain about my dream, he was certain that all things happen for a reason; be they head injuries, strange dreams, or dirty cellars.

He said I needn't accompany him to deliver alms. He suggested I remain and take some time to contemplate life. Then he prayed for me, gave me the £5 wage, and left.

I wrote before that I'm not much for spiritual things, so I can't say I actually did much more than sit there while the time passed. I didn't pray. I didn't chant or meditate. I just sat there. After a while, I got up and went home.

The local church friar waisted no time in putting me to work. My morning consisted mostly of cleaning. The work was hard, but not as much as mining. Around noon, I was instructed to help the kitchen prepare for lunch, and scrub pots afterward.

The afternoon involved still more cleaning. (How does such a small church get so dirty?) After cleaning, I assumed I was done for the day... but I was wrong. The friar informed me I was to accompany him on his trip to the local "beggar's corner" - a place where the wretched congregate and beg for charity. We stayed for about 2 hours as the friar gave a (supposedly) short sermon, listened to the people's troubles, and prayed with them for deliverance.

Afterwords, we gave out the few coppers that the church could spare, and the crowd began to disperse. I confess I don't think on spiritual matters as often as I should, but after seeing the sorry state of those folk I pray I'll never wind up in such an awful way.

Upon returning to the church, I was given my last task; to sweep the entrance hallway. Once I'd finished, the friar took me aside, said a prayer for me, congratulated me on work well-done, and (finally) paid me my day's wage - 5 pounds.

I don't know which was hurting most: the hunger in my belly, the ache in my limbs, or the pity in my soul for those poor wretches. Some folks might have sprinted to the taverns after a day like today, but not me. I bypassed them and made straight for home. I just wanted to get to bed as quickly as possible and put that day behind me.

Before work, I spent most of the morning at the Cock & Bull tavern chatting the bartender, Allorardagon. We talked about nothing in particular. In fact, I don't quite remember leaving (I only had one round; I swear), but somehow, I made my way out of town down the county road to work.

After yesterday's incident in the local iron mine, I deiced to try my hand in the county gold mine. The work is just as hard; perhaps more so since I'd swear a load of gold-laden ore is heavier than iron. Today, I was always sure to keep one eye pealed for any runaway carts.

On a curious note, my coworkers swear during my break, while eating the last of my bread ration, I would occasionally spout random outbursts to no one in particular. I have no recollection of this and am secretly wondering if they're not having a go at the new guy.

After work, I decided to browse the market, since I'm now in need of food for tomorrow. I've been told that corn or bread is the smart buy for a man of my status. And since I've had nothing but bread for days, I spend some of my accumulated wages on 4 small bags of corn (purchased at the reasonable sum of £3.55). Hopefully, this will last me a few days.

Before turning in for the evening, I decided to lift my spirits at the Cock & Bull. I spent a few hours talking with the likes of Uyghtred, Weinerschnitzel, and EdwardIV. Drake_roanoake, the proprietor of the C&B, arrived at some point and was very helpful with advice about making a go of things in Ayr. Later, I spoke with Ariani, a local miller about some farming nuances, how to balance traveling and working, and whether the Clergy have the power to damn everyone to heck.

As the day ended, I retired to me familiar hovel, a little wiser and a lot sleepier.

Sadly, the day ended on a somewhat unfortunate note. Shortly before the end of my shift, an out of control mine cart decided to check the hardness of my head - at least, that's what nearby witnesses later told me. I awoke outside the mines surrounded by my concerned coworkers. They say I'm lucky to be alive (praise Jah) since I was unconscious and semi-delirious for several hours. It seems I'll have a nice scar on the back of my head as a reminder of my first day in the big city... that and the way my teeth sometimes taste like rainbows.

On my way back to my shabby dwelling, I came across my longtime friend and sponsor, EdwardIV. We exchanged pleasantries and reaffirmed our mutual trust. Still aching from my day's labor and the accident, I shortly bid him goodbye and retired.

My second site was www.hotelsinayr.net and i have just launched it within the last month, again i am achieving front page rankings on Google for keywords such as "hotels in ayr" and "accommodation in ayr". The aim with this site is to get a No1 ranking for one of the main keywords without spending any money on advertising or link building.

I am not saying that by simply buying a keyword rich domain you will be on the front page but for non competitve keywords it seems to certainly give you a great advantage over your competitors. For more information on this read the following article http://ezinearticles.com/?Has-the-AdWords-Bubble-Burst?&id=1252549

Anyway, we set off from Portie in a haar and drove into the sunshine on the way to Ayrshire. It was a gloriously sunny day (the power of prayer at work) and we quickly realised that an afternoon was not nearly enough time to do justice to Culzean Castle and its grounds. (Not to mention the wee gift shops and second-hand bookshop which I missed. Drat.) Did manage a scamper round the castle though.

Oh, and I did find another handbag of glory in lilac tweed. To die for!

Then it was back on the bus and a short drive via the electric brae where the bus rolled backwards although the hill went up. (No alcohol had been consumed at this point, I promise.) A whizz past Rabbie Burn's cottage and on to Ayr for high tea. For those who don't know the Scottish High Tea, it involves fish and chips (or similar), white bread and butter, followed by scones and cakes. Delicious, if not carb ridden. We know how to do carbs, we Scots. This was the view of sun on water...

Then we waddled out to have our photae took by Tony the driver. Here we are in all our glory. It was a lovely day and we drove home with a glorious red sun (no pic cos I was on the motorway).

Suggestions for next year's outing gratefully received.

What terrific weather we had today for the May Day holiday. I took Carrie and Gracie to Greenan shore which is at Doonfoot, just outside Ayr. Here's a picture of the beach with Greenan castle in the background, I've also put in an arial map of the area. Below is a birds eye view (I love playing about with microsoft live search maps)of where we were. X marks the spot where Gracie got her first experience of sand. She loved it and was not pleased when Carrie picked her up to bring her back to the car.

Here's Gracie on the sand.

]]> http://craigiecrayons.wordpress.com/?p=23 Thu, 01 May 2008 09:21:26 +0000 jo85 http://craigiecrayons.wordpress.com/?p=23 This is our parody of The Crocodile Hunter. We swapped the Australian outback for the leafy suburbs of Ayr, and what we found was quite wild!

The rain is falling in a curtain of chilled out silver beads. It fills the half-finished fish pond, with its patient Buddha and dearth of gold fish, in the back garden of my folks new house. It beads on the black, oily, otter-shiny coat of my parent's Labrador pup, Max, as he stands oblivious to the heavens ongoing effort to drown Scotland with his bright candy-pink tongue hanging over the flashing white teeth that line his laughing mouth, tail wagging furiously.

That tail is dangerous. Whoops, there goes Buddha.

My own dog is lying at my feet as I type, staring morosely out the open kitchen door at the continuous wet outside. Dougal is a Louisiana dog, and not at all impressed by the way the rain has suddenly turned cold or the sudden loss of his flighty Chicago girlfriend Stella. He now shares his digs with a huge, clumsy, 90Ib, overgrown Labrador pup called Max, and he is not at all impressed by that either.

Max loves his new found best friend and spends hours gnawing and licking at Dougal's face, whining and bowing, presenting his well–chewed rope-toy to my dog's stoic, topaz, and long-suffering gaze.

"Play with me! Ahhh, go on, play with me!" Max seems to be saying, bouncing and dancing, throwing his big, soft body in earnest circles, thick powerful tail wind-milling and flailing, knocking all the tea cups off the table and battering into the walls and the tender legs of onlookers

"Go on, grab the rope and pull. It'll be great! It'll be brilliant! Goan, goan, goan…"

The Maxinator is a lovely, big, eedjit of a dog and it's hard not to feel sorry for him when my beast can take no more and, with a sudden, southern snarl of total exasperation, rugby tackles hims, bowling him flat off his paws into the mud. The big dog falls on his back with a house-shaking thud, an ever-surprised yelp and a piteously shocked look in his eyes.

Dougal stands over him, stiff and snarling with exhausted malice, his teeth buried in the loose skin of his tormentor's neck. Max freezes in terror until the wee red southern savage slowly unlocks his jaws and lets the big dog get back on his soft puppy feet.

Two seconds later the rope is back in Max's mouth, he is whining and dancing in his pleading circles and Dougal is staring at the ceiling, shaking his head.

Goddammit, I can hear him say, if only I had a gun and an opposable thumb.

My dad is practicing fiddle whilst my mother is at work. He plays a slow air he knows I like, and as I listen to the fiddle's mourning I look out the open kitchen door on to a cold and rain-watery Scottish day.

It has been raining since yesterday morning. Most people would describe the weather outside as grey, dismissing it out of hand as another overcast, alleged sunrise in the grim north, another typical Scottish summer day.

Graham Burn, the husband of one of my best and oldest friend in Edinburgh smiled into his coffee on my last visit to their basement castle apartment as we looked out from the welcome warmth of their large stone kitchen, and sought the courage to brave the endless sheets of water tumbling down over the elegantly shining, water-stoic city of Edinburgh.

The Festival was in full swing but the kitchen jwas just too very comfortable to leave. Not to mention dry.

"Scotland does grey very well," he murmured almost to himself, dark and grey-eyed himself, coffee cup sending fragrant curls of steam into the fire warm air. "But grey is my favourite colour, so that's ok."

I don't think of the cloudy skies of Scotland as grey...grey is just too small a word.

The Scottish skies are silver and palest steel. They are thin layers of mercury and platinum through which the sun shows ghostly pale but determined. The Scottish heavens gleam and glisten rather than shine and glow. They are washes of water colour, subtle blues, improbable ambers, heavy indigos.

It always brings to mind that old nugget of info about the Eskimos and their hundreds of words for 'snow'. Likewise 'grey', used as an adjective to describe the skies of Scotland really just doesn't cut it.

Only as the sun goes down, after a hard work day trying to punch through the drifting blankets of water draped softly over the green and sodden landscape, do the skies release their bright colours in the west, igniting the magnesium of the Caledonian firmament and throwing flames of red and gold across the clear darkening blue of the horizon in an exuberant last bow, before the sun slides exhausted and triumphant under the waves of the Irish sea on its way to the Caribbean, where I imagine cocktails and sunchairs are waiting.

Aye, it's a plain kind of day, right enough.

I am rediscovering the joys of thick woolen socks, high boots and wooly hats. Waterproof jackets, gloves and hot chocolate. It's the kind of research I really enjoy, especially with marshmallows.

It's tough sometimes. After years of deciding only which colour wife-beater to team with my denim cut downs, or which pair of flip-flops to wear with a new cotton sundress, all this layering up is hard to get used to.

My fingers are always slightly cold, and my hair takes forever to dry in the cool, water-laden air. Whisky in my tea is appreciated now as never before, I cook thick stews and soups instead of salads and chicken and I can take up to twenty minutes to get out of the hot shower. It's so nice and warm standing under the hot splash of water; it's really so not once you are out and shivering in the chilly air.

My dad loves the hot spicy food of New Orleans so a small exclusive kitchen in Ayr is periodically busy with gumbos and red beans. Albert Alfonso's hot sauce is taking a beating, but he has promised to bring more next time he visits.

Supply and demand, baby! And if demanding fails try begging.

The sound of Kermit Ruffins is drifting from the CD player, along with Lunasa, Steve Earle and the Zydepunks. I'm a fan of compilation CDs. Sometimes the mixes are a bit little bit strange but I like it that way. Music, like food is better with a lot of different flavours in the mix.

Even the air smells different here, thick with the salt-tang iodine of the sea, not the heady heaviness of fecund river mud perfumed with flowers.
If scents had a tint, if the air of a particular place could be a colour you could see, New Orleans air would be a dense, velvet-soft red, shot through with twisting veins of burnished gold. Ayrshire, on the other hand, would be a pellucid swirl of ice-blue, grass-green and white glittering salt underpinned with dark base of moist, grudging earth.

The Deep South of Louisiana, and the South-west of Scotland; such opposite parts of a internal spectrum. I'm in love with both.

My dad and I take the dogs to the beach almost every day, when it isn't raining too much that is. My Ninth-Ward Crack-Hound has ruined Max's training.
Obviously the glamour of a newly arrived Louisianan outlaw pooch supersedes all my father's painstaking teachings and, at the moment, Max is in full teenage puppy rebellion.
No more fetching and carrying for him.
If he were human he would be painting his bedroom black, but since he is not he has picked up Dougal's habit of going spontaneously deaf when told to do something that he doesn't want to instead.

Dougal's joy at the wide, wild beaches and the empty fields of Ayrshire comes off him in waves. There is no happier dog in the world than my Dougal when he off the leash at Dunure, or Glen Trool. He can run like a small, ginger greyhound when he wants to, and he does, straight towards some folk who are heading towards the ruins of Dunure castle just a little bit further along the beach. Max takes off after him, both dogs spontaneously losing their ability to hear despite my loud swearing. The distant figures, canine and bipedal, have their silhouetted drama thankfully out of my only-human hearing range. It looks pretty heated. There is much waving of arms and throwing of stones.

My dog is a bit of an asshole and his newest untaught trick is running up to distant children, peeing on them and hightailing it away.
I am filled with deep shame for my dog's delinquent behavior, I have no idea where he picked it up from, and it's not funny.

Well, not to the kids who have just been unexpected showered with love anyway.
Nope, not funny.
Not even kinda sorta. Honest.
Wanker dog.

Maelstrom
Category: Writing and Poetry

If you catch the train from the small, west coast fishing town of Ayr to Glasgow, that fast growing city drawn in black ink, you pass close along the Newton Shore.
Off Newton beach there sits the wreck of a coal boat that has been there for as long as I can remember. She sank within a stones throw of land and, as far as I know, everyone on board when she foundered made it out alive. The story runs that she was stolen by the mate when he was drunk, and his attempt to sale her home ended in comical disaster.

At high tide all you can see is the top of her mast, reaching upwards towards the sky through cold, murky water. She sways with the tide and when the water is low you can look down inside the seaweed and barnacle encrusted stairs to the empty hold below. There's no coal in her now; the people of Ayr made salvage within days of the sinking.

The town of Ayr enjoys the warming effects of the Gulf Stream - those hot waters that feed the hurricanes off the Gulf Coast of America.It is relatively balmy... for Scotland, of course
We have palm trees that try very hard to grow in the more sheltered gardens along the coast. They alway look a little apologetic to me, a little out of place, bright green tropical leaves under lowering, silver, water-sodden skies. I like them though. They are brave.

It rarely freezes hard on the south-west coast, and the snows that block the passes for months up north around Glen Coe and Lochailort occasionally dust Arran white, but seldom linger long. The salt in the air and those warm, nurturing, storm-feeding, treacherous gulf waters keep them at bay.

Ayr is a soft Shire with a hard, bloody history. Rabbie Burns, our national poet, grew up there, wrote his poets, dallied with his women, became the toast of Edinburgh society and died young. William Wallace stares sternly from his lofty seat in the tower on Ayr High Street; Stirling Bridge and Falkirk are both close by. Auld Ayr is a town of farms and sheep, cows and llamas. I have heard tell of ostrich farms too.

The town harbour used to be crowded with fishing boats and loud with fishermen talking and laughing: the gulls screaming as they fought for the guts and the heads of todays catch, and the occasional unguarded cod or mackerel. My dad told me a story of an unfortunate fisherman who lost a finger on the cold slab of the gutting table, first to a clumsy, careless moment and then to an agile and opportunistic seagull. May God strike me down it's not a true story, said my dad. I believe him.

The Smugglers Bar still opens at five in the morning, but it is the late drinkers. the town jakies and the lads just off the night-shift from the local supermarket that drink there now, and not the newly on-shore.

Expensive flats look over the empty bay, out towards the beautiful island of Arran, lying supine in the Sound. The crowded fish-market, and the early dawn ruckus is long gone. Seagulls still circle hopefully above the clean concrete and the ruined walls of the ancient Viking fort, and the high hill-hewn profile of Arran and the empty market place stare at each other across the choppy sea.

We don't see the snows too much, we don't freeze too hard or too often in winter, and the summer days are long and welcoming, but then winter comes and in January and February we are lashed by the fierce living gales which rage for days on end. When the gales arrive, people go down to the beach in their cars to watch the storm waters. The high roaring waves crash white, blue and cloudy jade-green on the storm wall, and sometimes they cover the parked cars in frothing blankets of salt-seawater.
It is an amazing sight, although I am sure it cannot be good for the car engines.

Last year the storm-walls, which had held back the seas for so many years, were smashed to pieces. The battering waves picked up the huge stones which made the walls, and threw them across the shore lining fields. They broke windows in houses, they smashed cars, they put the fear of God into the house-holders along the beach, and now the old wall is gone and the sea can reach far inland.
Awesome, the casual damage inflicted by the sea water...in the true sense of the word.

Not too far from the sunken coal boat there stands the Lighthouse.
It's not big, the Lighthouse, it's not fancy and nobody mans it now, but it still throws its warning light into the roiling blackness of the January and February storms.
Sometimes, from the train window en-route to Glasgow, you can barely see it through the gleaming, iron-grey waters that batter and bash at its white-washed walls, storm winds blasting hard enough to toss salt water on the train window, over half a mile inland.

The storm-waves look like they are made from molten lead or mercury. They are silver and black, shredded by the wind into pale shining storm-caps. We call the storm-caps 'white horses' and herd after herd of these horses gallop landwards to leap over what is left of the storm wall, and break themselves against the cars, smashing against the stone houses and the cool, stoic, watchful fortress of the Lighthouse.

It makes the hair rise on your neck, the sound of that ocean.
Heard from the warmth of the train cabin it is faint, but still so full of casual, indifferent power. The crash, and the roar and whispering voices.

And still the Lighthouse stands.

And still the white horses keep coming...

MAELSTROM

We awake.
Five score fathoms down and coldly gleaming.
We stir.
And the cold, sullen waters recoil around us.
The weight of midnight oceans, heavy on our shoulders.
Chill fingers caress sleep flanks.
We slowly turn and twist, unquiet in our dreams.

All around us...
Enveloping. Cocooning. Secret velvet darkness.
The teeming Void.
Black depths. Never lit by dawn.
The inside of a dreamers eyes, studded with nightmare creatures. Monstrosities all aglow with unearthly light.
Impenetrable murk.
Luminous sequins.
Voracious appetites.
Slowly waltzing in an eternal dance of predatory death. Life eating life as we
slumber,
our ears pressed to the pulse of the world.

Distant thunder.
The sound invades our dreams.
Slow, deliberate hearts begin to beat,
to the rhythm of the tides.
Beat.
Ancient eyes turn towards the surface. Yearning.
Beat.
Beat.
Listen....

The Maelstrom calls us.
Rise! Rise!
Dance on the raging waves!
Fling the paean skywards.
And lead the storm to shore!
Limbs brace against the shadowy bed. Muscles coil under pale silk hides.
Push!
Upwards.
Scattering of stones, buried in a soft, silt shroud. Soaring into the eternal blackness.
Above and below us.
icy water and we, pale comets suspended in inner space.
Upwards.
Gathering speed.
Inky waters. The darkness gradually emptying and
filling with light, gilding sea-stained skin with dapples of gold and verdigris.
Incandescent in the gloom.
The Sound.
Siren sea-song. Rushing. Sibilance.
Murmuring past our ears as the light grows stronger. Brighter.
Stabbing and blinding us as we near the surface.
Roiling waters. Speeding our ascent.
Faster!
Amniotic waters fill with green light,
Faster!
The rumble of thunder.
Faster!
Crashing. Billowing waves.
They break
against each other, smashing into a million lightning-lit splinters.
Electric white,
Neon blue,
Luminously radiant
We no longer gleam,
We shine
and the sea catches fire around us as we explode through the surface.
Punching skywards
in a germination of frothing white foam. A flowering as fragile as ice held up to light.
Hard as the heart of evolution.
Surging around us, the Sea is
the flawed oily colour of archiac glass
hidden deep-drowned in sunken ships far below.
Rain falling
Sheet,
after sheet,
after sheet,
striking the heaving obsidian surface.
Perfect crystal beads
glittering momentarily in the storm light before
vanishing forever
amid the roar and the tumult of the elements.

Lightning flashes from cloud to cloud
charging the air. Electricity raises the fine hairs on our icy bodies.
Maddening us with
a thousand prickling kisses.

We are
the epicentre,
of a swirling whirlpool of shrieking wind and furious ocean
and we dance the razor edge between
the lashing waters and the crackling skies.
We turn our heads to the wind, baring our fangs.

The storm has us and hold us tight in a lovers embrace,
Backs arch
against the driving force of the living gale.
The wind
tears our manes into pale banners,
that catch the wounded light of the bruised heavens.
Illumination
sliding over our skins and carving our forms in
crashing water.
Promethial fire courses through our viens; ichor, countless aeons old.
We throw back our heads and scream
the battle-cry skywards.

Before
the first sea-born abandoned the oceans
we were.
The skies silent,
the desolate keening of the wind moving over still waters.
The stars blaze from the firmament and ours the only eyes to see them.
The aurora undimmed by land-locked light.
Now
Bitter eyes turn towards the coming shore.
There.

The Light-House.
Standing defiant on it's salt-wave-battered, glistening rock.
Thread-bare beam, thin and brave,
swings
through raging storm, cutting a swathe through the deluge.

Our eyes reflect the illumination,
glowing
ember red in the darkness.

The Light-House.
Futile.
Fragile.
Guardian of the alien storm-tossed lives.
The indomitable Light-House, throwing it's life-line into the raging storm.
Battling the roaring waters.
Defying lashing rain.
Refusing to abandon those held in thrall far out to sea.
Guiding them home.

We lash the sea to greater fury.
Dark waters
gather and surge,
wave after wave,
bearing us landward
as our fury rises and mists our minds blood-red.

We are here as we have always been and we remember.
We do not forgive, we do not forget.
We await our chance and we are always watching.

We live in the Seasons. The Encircling Waters of the World.
The synaptic voltage of the the Thunderbolt.
The Heart of the Maelstrom.

We reach the Light-House screaming
and,
rearing,
We smash our hooves against it!

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