Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

September 2009

Tepee or not Tepee

It wasn't until we were sat on the lawn underneath one of the rowan trees at Kiltyrie Farmhouse, by the shores of Loch Tay, that I had a chance to think about the twists and turns that led us there. We were meant to be staying up the road in a wooden tepee ('hut', in the words of one of my more candid friends). We dithered: some evenings we were all set for tepee adventure, others, not so much. About three days before the scheduled weekend, I rang to see if we could still cancel. No, we were too late for an automatic refund, if they managed to re-sell the hut/tepee we could have our money back. I asked them to do their utmost to find a taker, then rang back on Friday afternoon, rain beating at the windows; no-one else was interested in the 'Ben Nevis'.

The next day, less than half a mile from home, by now bathed in sunshine, these guys were playing on the radio. "Just phone and check they still have the tepee for us, would you? Just to be absolutely sure," I said. Va-vay rang, asked and went quiet. "Okay. Yes, yes, no, absolutely you did the right thing."

"They've sold it? The tepee?"

"I'm afraid so," said Va-vay.

"They hadn't sold it when I rang yesterday afternoon."

"Well, they have now."

"What shall we do?"

"Let me phone tourist information in Killin."

At Kiltyrie Farmhouse, the owner, Jane, served us tea and home-made lemon cake on the lawn. Walking books lined the sitting room. There was a noticeable - and, lest you are unfamiliar with my taste, welcome - absence of chintz. Beanie enjoyed making the acquaintance of the chickens who lived in their Eglu ('Look, Mummy, they've got a wee house'). The next day we breakfasted off their eggs. We played tag around the apple trees, which were dropping their fruit, admired Jane's vegetable garden, where she grows leeks, parsnips and potatos, scrambled up the hill behind the house, climbed until we could see the loch spread out far below us. Rowan berries glinted red in the autumn sunshine.

It was then I remembered a piece of Scots folklore; ancient Highlanders revered rowans for their mystical powers; druids made their staffs from rowan wood; witches used the branches for dowsing and charms. Many Scots, even today, still wish on rowan wood and use it as a talisman for protection. And I knew what it was that drew us here.

Posted 23 September 2009 19:14 | Number of comments: 3 | Comments

Activities Dilemmas Fun Holidays

Manna

None of us were expecting to find one of Beanie's snacks growing on the slopes of Ben Lawers. You can miss a lot, not knowing where to look. We discovered that when we spent this weekend in Perthshire, (staying at the wonderful Kiltyrie Farmhouse), and tackled one of Scotland's highest mountains.

Fourteen shimmering miles of loch lay far below us in the valley. The sun had broken through low cloud cover, rain was holding off and we could hear rushing water in the brook that gave Ben Lawers its name; (in Gaelic, Beinn Labhair means Hill of the Loud Stream). We loaded Button (aged one) into a carrier on her father's back, strapped on our walking boots and set off up the path towards the summit of the 1,200-metre massif.

Only a mile into the walk I could feel my pelvis begin to ache. Struggling for breath, I stopped walking, sat down with a thud on the path verge, pulled out my water bottle and began to gulp at it.

"Do you know what these are?" said my husband, pointing to a shrub by the path. The shrub in question had small, boat-shaped leaves, and a speckled look. It was growing so close to the ground, it was almost indistinguishable from the heather, saxifrage, and other plants growing nearby. In many years of hillwalking, I'd never even noticed this plant before. Had we stopped further up the mountain, we would have missed it altogether.

I think I would climb a mountain any day, dodgy pelvis or not, for the pleasure of watching Beanie's joy at picking fruit on a hillside, seeing blueberry juice stain her face purple, knowing she will understand that good things do not always come pre-packaged from supermarkets. Sometimes, in fact, they're right there next to us, waiting for us to notice them, even if we need someone else to point them out.

Posted 16 September 2009 19:46 | Number of comments: 6 | Comments

Beanie Button Fun Holidays Out and about

Warrior

A parcel of clothes has arrived from Vertbaudet, the French mail order company that specialises in maternity, baby and kids' clothing. Inside are the most delightful clothes for Beanie (three) and Button (one), handpicked by the firm's publicists. Beanie receives a pinafore in purple needlecord, matching tights and rollneck sweater. She is in ecstasy when she sees her outfit. I too am pleased; and enjoy the novelty of having clothes in our lives that are not pink. With difficulty, I persuade Beanie to wait until after supper to try on her new threads. The dress is perfect; not too trendy, but smart, pretty and well-made; Beanie asks immediately to wear it to nursery. The firm also kindly sends Button several pairs of leggings and tops, and a black sweater (pictured) so sophisticated that it would not look out of place on the Paris Left Bank. At the weekend, Va-vay dresses Button in a pair of new leggings with matching top. Both, like the sweater, are black, though also studded with small white stars. The effect is more sophisticated - and startling - than anything we have ever seen before from the cherubic Button. Dressed in so much black, she looks like a Ninja Warrior Princess, albeit one as yet unable to walk. What's more, the new clothes coincide with another sea-change in Button's life: the move to a new, forward-facing car seat. As Va-vay buckles Button into her turbo-charged ejector seat on Saturday morning he looks at her thoughtfully. "Do you know what you remind me of, Button?" he says. Beanie and I look at him, waiting for an answer. "A fighter pilot." Button grins and coos.

Posted 14 September 2009 20:01 | Number of comments: 5 | Comments

Daughters Kit

Full circle

Sat in café yesterday morning eating wholewheat croissant. Yes, wholewheat croissant. Surely a contradiction in terms, you must be thinking? Can something as unhealthy as croissant also be wholesome? Apparently yes. "They're very popular, the wholewheat ones," said the assistant at Henderson's Vegetarian Café, picking up a croissant with her tongs. Was first time I have ever tasted such a thing, despite living with vegetarian Va-vay for many years. Chewing on the croissant proved more of an effort than expected. Could almost hear digestive system grinding more slowly in protest. But a pleasure to be back in Henderson's. The last time I was in this café without children was when I was practically a child myself. Aged 18, I used to come to Henderson's with my sister and friends on Friday evenings. Waitressing and cleaning jobs meant we could just about manage the 8p bus fare to Princes Street in the centre of town and a 90p glass of house white. I remember standing at the dimly-lit wooden bar, counting out my 10p pieces, worried I might not have enough money and thinking the 1970s pine fittings the height of sophistication. I might even have been wearing an outfit from Laura Ashley - oh dear. We never got drunk; we couldn't afford it, but lingered there for hours, eking out our drinks and discussing our dreams until staff got fed up and slung us out. These days nights out with girlfriends have become special again, maybe because so few of us parents take them for granted like we once did. But don't worry, Laura Ashley, bless her, no longer figures in the dress code.

Posted 11 September 2009 14:15 | Number of comments: 2 | Comments

Edinburgh Fun

Fireworks

We joined a party of friends and neighbours last night for a picnic in Princes Street Gardens to watch the Fireworks Concert that traditionally celebrates the last night of the Edinburgh International Festival. Despite living in Edinburgh most of my life (apart from the 15-year aberration that kept me exile from my native land in London) I have never up until last night managed to get hold of tickets to this concert. My only glimpse of the fireworks is usually from my sitting room window. And, to be honest, since Beanie arrived in our lives my joy at the Fireworks Concert has mingled slightly with dread; the banging overhead often wakes her up and gives her night terrors for weeks afterwards, with bed-time involving her asking me: "And there will not be fireworks tonight, Mummy?" and me saying, uncertainly, "I can't be sure, Beanie, but I'm not expecting any." Then her asking the same question another half-dozen times until I admit: "I have no idea about fireworks, just come and find me if you get scared."

The twenty eight of us last night took along tarpaulins, rugs, fleeces, thermos flasks of tea, quiche, bread, dips, beer and wine. We arranged ourselves on a grassy bank facing Edinburgh Castle and lay down on the grass to watch the explosions cascading above our heads. I last met one woman in the party when we were both languishing in one of the lower divisions for maths at school more than twenty years ago. Our numeracy must have improved since then; she is now an advocate and I work as a financial journalist. After we re-introduced ourselves, we got chatting about what we're doing now, husbands, kids, houses, work, that kind of stuff and discovered we have children of roughly the same age.

"Ah, so you're like me. You waited a while before having kids. It's great having them at this age, isn't it?" she said. Had I not been dragging a tarpaulin across a steep, grassy slope, progress impeded by the dodgy pelvis that is attributable to difficult pregnancies and advancing middle age, I could have hugged her.

Posted 07 September 2009 15:08 | Number of comments: 2 | Comments

Edinburgh Festival Fun Older mother

Edinburgh bookshop opens

Headed out in waterproofs last night to celebrate at the Edinburgh Bookshop launch party. The bookshop was a beacon of light, warmth and laughter amid Morningside's chill rain. It is the latest venture from Fidra Books, the publishers who specialise in reviving neglected children's classics and who have been making their mark in Edinburgh bookselling over the last couple of years. The Edinburgh Bookshop is just a few doors down the street in Bruntsfield Place from the company's Children's Bookshop, which has quickly become a well-loved institution for parents and children alike.

Each guest at the launch was photographed holding a copy of their favourite book from the shop's shelves. Fidra have great taste in books; stylish, eclectic, but with fingers on the pulse of what's happening in the market. Meaning we were spoilt for choice: one luminary of Scottish publishing was spotted with Jurassic Towel Origami, the book that teaches readers to make dinosaurs out of towels. Another was snapped holding How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read. That might have been useful before last night's launch party, at least for me. Someone else chose Scotland's Lost Houses, by Ian Gow. As for me, I chose The Creative Writing Coursebook by Julia Bell and Paul Magrs, despite being sorely tempted by the Hebridean Desk Diary. Topics of conversation included whether the ghost of Dame Muriel Spark, latter-day local resident and writer, might be tempted to do an author event, via seance, why one should never make the mistake of under-estimating scriptwriter skill on TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, how to make planes out of balsam wood, and, of course, the importance of blogging.

Plenty of local writers kindly turned out to give their support to the shop and there was real pleasure at the party in seeing an independent bookshop opening its doors. Especially one called the Edinburgh Bookshop, a name which has such happy associations for so many people. Other Edinburgh residents among you will almost certainly remember the original Edinburgh Bookshop that stood on George Street for many years. Here's wishing the new shop every success.