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Good old Radio 6 Music – they came up trumps the other day with a lovely hour-long programme on the enduring charm of the Glasgow Barrowlands, believed by many to be one of the best venues in Scotland. At the risk of spoiling the surprise – my favourite ever gig was at the Barrowlands, and the nostalgia prompted me to revive and revise my two-part blog on Bands I Have Seen!

There’s nothing quite like live music. The venue might be cramped and hot, the music might be too loud to do anything but communicate by sign language or telepathy, but there is something joyous about the atmosphere and noise and occasion that can thrill your soul if it’s done right.
I was chatting to a pal about bands we’d seen live, and it got me reminiscing. I have never been an ardent gig-goer really: there are people out there who are at live gigs every week, and travel to different parts of the country or indeed world, to see their favourites. Fans of certain bands will stop at nothing to get tickets; camp out on the street, phone hotlines for hours on end…I’m not one of those. If I have been lucky enough to see a good band it was because the moment was appropriate, the tickets were available and crucially, the company was right.

Hawkwind
It is a subject of debate whether the first band I ever saw is something of which I should be proud, or embarrassed. It was Hawkwind. There, I’ve said it. It’s out there. I went with a friend to, if memory serves, the Hammersmith Odeon. Was that a venue? Is it still? This must have been about 1984 or 1985, and I have two strong memories of the occasion: the two litre bottle of cider we smuggled in, and the fact that Michael Moorcock came on and recited epic fantasy poetry. I was chuffed as I was quite into Moorcock at the time, although I have never re-read any of his books, and I hesitate to do so, fearing that The Dancers at the End of Time Trilogy will not stand up to the cold eye of experienced lit.crit. I would be delighted if someone were to assure me otherwise. Would I still love Jherek Carnelian? Of Hawkwind the band, the music, I remember nothing. In later years I was to see one of the we-can’t-call-ourselves-Hawkwind-due-to-ongoing-litigation bands at the Guilford Festival, and it had all the old tricks: a child juggling, a man in a waistcoat and rubber mask grinding a guitar, a large-breasted woman dancing: and it had all the charm of a car crash. But in 1985 as a first gig, Hawkwind had at least a smidgeon of street-cred.
Towards the end of the 1980s there were big music scenes in Britain’s towns – but it could rarely be said that the Fife town of St Andrews was a hotbed of cutting edge performance and happenings. RockSoc did their best, but you can understand the reluctance of some bands to play a university full of posh rugger buggers, fewer than 5,000 students, and no railway station. Despite this, I managed to see the Bay City Rollers (can’t remember which ‘version’, and sadly they only want to play their new album and nary a hint of tartan anywhere), Showaddwaddy (who turned up in shiny suits and crepe soles and sang all the cheesy hits and were fab), and Sam Brown (who was having a very off day, snarled at the audience, and gave a very bad-tempered performance, only redeeming herself by singing Led Zep’s Rock and Roll at the end).
But the finest gig without a doubt that I ever saw at St Andrews Student Union was The Waterboys. The music was great, but the story is better. By some unheard of fluke, the Union had managed to book a band shortly before they hit their peak: in the time between booking the band, and the actual gig, The Waterboys released their Fisherman’s Blues album, and they were riding high. The day the tickets went on sale, I was working in a local café bar (The Victoria Café, fact fans) and had no money anyway, so missed out. I was mildly disappointed but got on with my life. On the day of the gig I was also working, and the bar that day was busy. From 10am onwards, one table in the corner was taken by a group pf Irishmen who were drinking Murphys like it was going out of fashion; they were very funny and sweet and they asked me if I was going to the gig. Not me, I replied, no ticket. Aw well, that’s no problem, they said. We’re the support band – we’ll put you on the guest list. Ooh, the support band, I said, what are you called? The Saw Doctors, they said. Never heard of you, came back my snappy reply. To be fair, the Saw Doctors did not at that time have a record deal, and had been discovered (so legend had it) by Mike Scott playing in a bar in Galway or somesuch, whereupon he invited them to support The Waterboys’ forthcoming tour. I jumped at the chance, and they made me agree to get on stage and dance when they played. Well, the concert was fantastic, and I jigged like a good ‘un and had a brilliant time. Afterwards, my pal Julie and I invited The Saw Doctors back to my flat where a true rock ‘n’ roll evening was had by all, during which I copped off with the bass player. In true gentlemanly fashion they all went back to their scabby Transit and spent the remainder of the night there, turning up in the morning for tea and toast before heading off to Aberdeen for the next gig. Happy days, indeed.
My boyfriend in first year at Uni had an eclectic taste in music : he was a huge Marillion fan and could also be found lurking around the back catalogue of Barclay James Harvest. To his credit though, he introduced me (via the medium of the good old C90 cassette) to John Martyn, and I will always be grateful to him for that. I saw John Martyn three times I think, all of them in Edinburgh, with Mr Dragon. On one occasion it was just John and a guitar and an amp, and it was like being transported to heaven on the wings of slightly grubby but still gilded angels who smoked forty a day. On another occasion he had a full band, and was a little the worse for wear: during a sublime guitar solo he misjudged the crucial angle of guitar-godness, lost his balance and fell over. He lay on his back and continued to play without even skipping a beat. A few roadies managed to heave him back on his feet, and all was well. We miss you, John.

JM
To be continued……

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I had lived in Quoyloo for about three weeks before the knock came at the door. As it happened I was out at fiddle practice, so I didn’t speak to the lady herself, but when I got home Mr Dragon told me gleefully that I had had ‘the call’. A representative had dropped by to see if I would be interested in joining the local branch of the SWRI. The Scottish Women’s Rural Institute (known as ‘the Rural’) is the equivalent of the WI in England. For non-British readers, the WI (Women’s Institute) are the ones featured in the film ‘Calendar Girls’, based on a true story, where the ladies posed naked with sunflowers and sticky buns. The Quoyloo branch of the Rural would never stoop to such sensationalist tactics, I can assure you. Why waste a good bun?

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The Rural was formed in 1917, by a remarkable woman called Catherine Blair. She was an ardent supporter of the suffragette movement, and a member of Women’s Social and Political Union. Her husband, a farmer, supported her activities, and aided her in setting up a safe house for suffragettes released under the Cat and Mouse Act (a nasty piece of legislation whereby hunger striking women were released from prison once they were weakened to the point of near-death, then re-imprisoned once they had regained their strength). Blair was a skilled designer and craftswoman (she founded the Mak’Merry pottery) and realised that women throughout Scotland has skills to pass on, but little social opportunity to do so. Inspired by Guilds being formed in Canada, she proposed a similar organisation in Scotland, and the SWRI was born in Longniddry, providing women with a chance to meet, and exchange experiences and knowledge about everything from vegetable growing to political letter writing. The organisation (now the Scottish Women’s Institute, the ‘R’ having been recently dropped), now has over 20,000 members and more than 700 branches.

Most Orkney parishes have a branch of the SWI; Quoyloo is not actually a parish, but has one anyway. The aims are the same today as they ever were; to pass on skills from one generation of women to another, to take part in activities together, and to enjoy the friendship and company of local women.

I applaud them mightily for their talents and philosophy. One is not born knowing how to darn a sock or make lemon curd, and if a young lass from the city had the good fortune to marry an Orkney farmer, well…..she would need to learn these essentials. The Rural meetings are usually held every month, there is sometimes a theme or a motto, and often a visiting speaker, followed by gallons of tea and any number of home-baked goodies. A quick glance at one week’s Orcadian newspaper reveals a run-down of the Rural meetings over the past month:  in Firth, the ladies chose the motto ‘A laugh is worth 100 groans in any market’, and enjoyed a quiz, a drawing game, and a Christmas story. The women of Harray embraced the spirit of ‘It’s always the busiest folk who have time for more’, whilst listening to John Copland from the cattle mart talking about ‘A Day in the Life of an Auctioneer’. Meanwhile, in Costa, the guests Thora and Anne sang and told stories, mindful of the phrase ‘Sweet music lingers in the memory’.

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I have, on occasion, had the pleasure of speaking or playing as a guest at the Rural. The ladies are always a discerning but appreciative audience, and any guest is treated very well indeed, plied as they are with tea, cake, and potentially winning raffle tickets. But then….the crunch. The payoff. The heavy, heavy responsibility. It falls to the visitor or guest speaker, you see, to judge The Competition. The objects in The Competition, brought in by the members, will usually be laid out on a side table for inspection and awarding of points: the grading might be 1st, 2nd and 3rd, or Gold, Silver and Bronze, or some other way of marking the three best items. The judge ponders, picks up, inspects, tastes (if appropriate), holds up to the light. After due deliberation, and without knowing who made or chose the items, the judge then places the awards accordingly. The ladies themselves will then inspect everything, and the chair or secretary will note down the winners and order of merit.
At this point, those who are aware of the workings of the Rural will know what the competitions involve. Those who don’t will be shaking their heads and wondering what all the fuss is about. I can do no better than emulate our local station BBC Radio Orkney who regularly read out the sublime and poetic Rural competitions.
An item knitted from 100g of wool.
A poem about winter and four cheese scones.
An old plate.
A photograph of a flower and a jar of raspberry jam.
An embroidered handkerchief and a glass milk jug.
A matchbox filled with objects beginning with ‘M’.
A Christmas tree decoration (any craft) and home-made Baileys (!)

It is, as I have already said, a heavy responsibility to choose between the items presented, and one that must be treated with all seriousness. The crafts, creative writing, artistic appreciation and cookery skills of the Rural members range from warm-hearted attempts, to full blown genius, and sometimes the judge must exercise high levels of diplomacy – difficult when the items are anonymous.  I do hope that as a result of my judging efforts no-one has ever been cast down too much; after tasting six jars of rhubarb chutney it can be difficult to tell between them. When presented by a range of tartan items, I hope my ambivalent feelings towards dolls were put aside in an attempt to admire the artistry of the kilt stitching. And I beg forgiveness for the rebellious thoughts that have flashed through my brain when confronted by dense cheese scones – to wit: ‘Mine are better than that!’

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And therein lies the reason I ignored the summons. Not that I fear the Rural’s (erroneous) reputation as the bastion of old-fashioned attitudes. Neither am I put off by the (again false) impression that the Rural is full of old ladies (firstly, some of them are younger than I am, and secondly, they are individuals and many of them are brilliant and wise and funny). I could beg to be excused on the grounds that I have many other things to do, but that isn’t really good enough. No, the reason I have not joined the Rural is this. I am far, far too competitive. I would hear the call to produce a tray bake and a knitted tea cosy, and I would not rest until I had made the best tray bakes and tea cosy of which I was capable. The red mist would descend, my competitive streak would kick in, and no prisoners would be taken in my desire to gallop across the finishing line ahead of the pack. The day I stop wanting to win is the day I shall join the Rural. In the meantime, I shall continue to listen with pleasure to Radio Orkney’s broadcast of that week’s competitions.
A drawing of a farm animal.
An item beginning with J and a floory bannock.
Four squares of fudge and a bonny plate.

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In the early 1990s I worked in a bar in the West End of Edinburgh, near to Haymarket station. In those pre-Starbucks days, the large buildings on the corners of the Edwardian terraces were still banks. At the other end of the street could be found the splendidly-named West End Fish and just across the way stood the war memorial erected to the players and supporters of a local football club who had died in the Great War.

Our pub was a mixture of locals’ drinking den (it was a cellar bar) and gastro-pub before they were all the rage. The owners of our place had culinary pretensions, which manifested as Sole Bonne Femme, vegetable crepes and chilli nachos; the one concession to ordinary pub grub was allowed on Sundays, when we did the All Day Breakfasts. You know the thing – sausages, fried egg, bacon, grilled tomato, and occasionally potato waffles – perfect hangover food. They were extremely popular and we did dozens of them.

After 3 years of working in that place I had gone from a fairly chipper and cheeky barmaid to a snarling surly animal, as I slowly realised that whilst bar and waitressing work was great for supplementing the student grant and handy in times of high unemployment, it was not exactly what I had planned as a full-on career. Customers asked for ice at their peril. To prevent me from scaring people too much, I was given kitchen tasks, and proved to be quite apt. I liked working in the warm kitchen, and was fast with the orders, plus I could develop my soup-making skills. Every day, the duty cook had to make a huge pot of soup for the next day, and I got stuck straight in. I befriended the rather shabby greengrocer across the road (the shop was shabby, not the Italian greengrocer or his two handsome sons). They loved me because I bought all the old, wilted, on-the-turn veg; Juliano would save me bunches of sad watercress and asparagus and I would transform them into bowls of (always vegetarian) delight. To this day I maintain that the best soup is made from vegetables that are past their best. As well as these exotics, I experimented with Broccoli and Brie, Stilton and Celery, Cream of Courgette and the good old leek and tattie. I once made a tureen of carrot and orange soup and a regular (nicknamed Chief, because he called everyone…erm…Chief….) proclaimed it to be ‘beezer’ which was a high accolade indeed.

On Sundays the routine was slightly different and I was occasionally on All Day Breakfast duties. I shared this honour turn about with a lad called Gavin, a clever but troubled soul who liked an occasional drink. Gav’s speciality was to take a hot potato waffle, top it with baked beans and grated cheddar, and then stick it under the grill until it bubbled. I was particularly proud of my mushrooms and tomatoes. The months/years wore on. I went part-time just doing lunches, but worked a full day on Sundays. Other employment beckoned and I finally made the decision to leave the bar and stop smelling of deep fat fryers. My last shift was a Sunday and my co-workers Andy, John and Gavin had told me in the previous week that I would have an easy time of it. Gavin would do the breakfasts, the other pair would serve at the bar, and I could lounge about smoking fags and reading the Sunday papers.

For the last time I donned my greying shapeless polo shirt, black leggings and Doc Martens and stomped up the road to work. I had had a few drinks the night before, knowing that the next day would be my last shift, so I was tired and a bit groggy and looking forward to eight hours of tea drinking and toast-eating. I arrived first to find the place empty, so I set about hoovering and putting the chairs down. Andy and John arrived and I announced my intention of getting the kettle on. Ah, they said. There’s been a slight change of plan. Gavin can’t make it. What? Why not? I cried. Well, he was pissed last night and got arrested and spent the night in the police cells. You’ll have to cook the breakfasts.

As fate would have it, it was one of our busiest Sundays for months and I spent hours frying eggs and heating up baked beans, cursing to high heaven and grinding my teeth every time I heard Gavin’s name mentioned. Finally, once all the greasy pans had been cleaned, I poured myself a pint and sat at the bar. I was looking forward to going home, pouring a hot bath, reading a book and having an early night. Andy and John popped up. They waved a card at me and handed over a bunch of tatty Michaelmas daisies. What’s this? My last shift. I was leaving. The end of an era. No word of farewells from the owners (who had not known what to make of the world’s grumpiest barmaid with degrees coming out of her ears), or indeed the rest of the staff. I was quite touched that someone had thought to mark the occasion, and we had a few celebratory pints before I headed home.

My years of barwork did nothing for my lungs or my liver, but they honed my soup-making skills a treat – indeed, where I became a proper Soup Dragon. I met some grand folk whilst pulling pints (including Mr Dragon) and I remember my grubby daisies with fondness. But I still had to cook the breakfasts on my last shift and if I ever see Gavin again I will kill him.

Aster novi-belgii White Ladies

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The Dragon’s Jacket

coat

In the town where I grew up there was a flea market. It was held every Saturday in a concrete courtyard behind the High Street shops, and it was where I spent most of my money between the ages of 10 and 18.
I collected things. My collections at one time included stamps, candles, tea tins and polished stones, but the collection I have maintained for most of my life has been that of old bottles and jars. Cod bottles with marbles, ink bottles, brown glazed cream jugs, 2-toned cider flagons and the occasional stone hot water ‘pig’. In my one-hour lunch break from my teenage Saturday job (in an achingly classy furniture and gift shop) I would buy a bag of chips and head for the market, browsing at a leisurely pace, the hot vinegary chips keeping my hands warm. The stallholders all knew me, and the man with the bottle stall would sometimes keep things by for me. I had very little money, so each purchase was made after an age of deliberation: sometimes it took me weeks to decide which lemonade bottle to buy.
There was a stall next to the bottle table which was crammed with vintage collectibles – stuff like old OXO tins, deck chairs and glass beads. I browsed there too, and occasionally bought something cheap like a small box that had once held Parma Violets. One Saturday I followed my usual routine – chip shop, flea market, bottle stall. But my purposeful steps were halted suddenly by the junk stall. There, dangling from a wooden hanger, was the most amazing piece of clothing I had ever seen. It was a boxy jacket made of very dark blue, almost black, thin corded material. At its cuffs and geometric angular collar was a thin rim of dark red ribbon, and round every edge was a rope of gold braid. Down the double-breasted front marched a line of tarnished brass buttons. The lining was black satin and the smell of decades hit my nostrils as I tried it on. It was a perfect fit, albeit a bit long in the arms.
The man on the stall told me that it was the jacket of a cinema commissionaire, the uniformed presence who opened doors, presided over the foyer, helped ladies on with their coats and occasionally introduced the films, no doubt featuring Hollywood legends like Clarke Gable and Hedy Lamarr. The jacket evoked movie glamour; it had a quasi-military air and more than a hint of Sergeant Pepper about it. I wanted it so much my stomach hurt. The stallholder wanted £40.00 for it.
It was a huge amount of money for me at the time. My Saturday job paid £8.00 a week and that had to cover my clothes, my books, my going out, my Saturday chips, everything. The stallholder and I came to a deal. He dropped the price to £38.00 and he allowed me to pay in instalments. It was nearly 5 months before I paid the last of the money and got to slip the musty satin over my shoulders once more. I paraded around the market and let the stallholders see me – they all knew how long I had waited for that moment. They applauded and admired, and I felt like I was on top of the world.
I wore the jacket regularly for years. My favourite outfit at 18 was a pair of tight cream jeans, knee length leather boots, black t-shirt and the commissionaire’s jacket. People knew me by it. Several women and a couple of men tried to buy it from me. When one of my university boyfriends first saw me, I was wearing it: he turned to a mutual friend and said ‘Who the hell is that?’
Years later I made a disastrous attempt to turn over the thick ropes of braid. The gold was tarnished on the outside and shiny underneath and I wanted to reverse it to get the bright gold uppermost. I unpicked the sleeves at the shoulders to reveal wads of woollen padding that looked like furniture stuffing. My braid-reversal did not really work.

Recently, we started the process of clearing out the boxes in our shed…and the jacket has surfaced again! It is still awesome, but looks very battle-weary (as you can probably tell from the photo). I wonder if a good clean and a clever seamstress could revive its former glories? I have tried it on – it still fits, and the strange musty aroma transports me back to those teenage years; the chips, the flea market, and the power of wearing The Jacket.

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Christmas 1973

Piano

Christmas Eve 1973

I was six years old and had recently started school. It was de rigueur in the primary schools of the time for pupils to take up the recorder, and it was there that I first learned to read music. I looked admiringly to my recorder teacher, Mrs Kibblewhite, and discovered that she also played and taught the piano; thus the idea first took hold in the brain of little Dragon.

At lunchtime on Christmas Eve, my grandmother arrived to spend the big day with our family. After she was settled with a cup of tea (served in her own bone china cup and saucer as she refused to drink out of our mugs), Nana questioned me as to what Santa was bringing.

‘I know what I’m getting,’ I said confidently.
‘Do you, darling? And what is Santa bringing you?’
‘A piano.’

My parents, listening nearby, were taken aback by this. They hadn’t got me a piano! However; I was so sure, and so adamant, that they felt that they couldn’t disappoint me. So (unbeknownst to me) my father ran up to the High Street, went to the local toy shop, and found a small plastic piano, about 6 inches high, which had something like a xylophone inside it so that when you hit a note, a tinny bell-sound resulted. It had a range of one octave, and the black keys were painted on.

Come Christmas morning, the rest of the world might as well not have existed – only my piano. Mum used a felt tip to mark numbers on the keys, and wrote out a few notated tunes for me (Rudolph and the baby Jesus featured strongly, I recall). I was delighted and instantly absorbed.

Back at school after the holidays I told Mrs Kibblewhite that I now had a piano, and wanted to start lessons as soon as possible. I think I must have been quite insistent, as a few weeks later Mrs K and my mum had a chat at the school gate, with Mrs Kibblewhite saying ‘I think she might be serious about this’.

A few weeks after that, it came home – a big old fashioned upright that looked like it had either been in the Wild West or a pub. It was hopelessly out of tune, and stayed that way for the rest of its days; nevertheless, I managed to pass 4 music grades on it. The piano became my default option; if I was happy, I played it. If I was sad or angry, I played it. My brother asked my mum one morning where I was. ‘She’s upstairs in her bedroom’ she replied. ‘No she’s not, I can’t hear the piano’.

At the age of about 10, my parents got a Hire Purchase deal on a new modern piano, and I carried on with the exams, sitting Grade 8 at the age of 15. I had a fruitful duet partnership with a classmate, and we had several good party pieces, including the Blue Danube and Handel’s Arrival of the Queen of Sheba! My favourite solo pieces included late Beethoven sonatas, and Chopin Nocturnes (typical for an emotional teenager, I think). I carried on lessons with Mrs Kibblewhite until I was 18 – she was my teacher for over 12 years.

When I left home to study, all sorts of other priorities took over, and as I had no regular access to a piano, I just stopped playing. And I haven’t, with any seriousness, played it for 30 years.

But a couple of weeks ago, I took a deep breath and went to have a chat to a friend and neighbour who is also a singer, pianist, recording artist….and teacher. I have taken the first tentative steps back into proper playing, and my new (patient) teacher is taking it slowly – back to Grade 2! I am also starting, after playing nothing but classical, to learn the basics of blues piano and improvisation. It’s the best present I could have given myself.

Happy Christmas everyone!

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A Sun-eating Dragon or Why I won’t mind if it’s cloudy tomorrow morning

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Tomorrow, at about 8.30am, I will be standing at the Ring of Brodgar with like-minded souls, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sun being eaten by a dragon. Or a solar eclipse, as the scientists insist on calling it.

We are well-placed in Orkney to take advantage of this phenomenon, as the further north you go, the more of the earth will be cast into shadow by the moon. 96% of our natural light will be extinguished, and we will have night time in the middle of the morning. And if it’s cloudy….well, it won’t matter in the slightest.

In August 1999 Mr Dragon and I travelled to his home town in south Devon to witness the total solar eclipse. With a couple of pals we headed to Windwhistle Farm, and staked our pitch in a field overlooking the lovely River Dart. The media build-up had been extensive, and as well as the safety advice and instructions on how to make a pinhole thingy for viewing, there was talk of Bailey’s Beads and Diamond Rings and all sorts of magically-named things. Many of these phenomena depended on a sunny day, and we were to be disappointed in that respect. But the event itself was amazing: here’s why.

Firstly, the clouds went funny. They made strange, beautiful patterns, probably responding to the drop in temperature as ‘dusk’ started to approach.

Then all the insects came out, as the light levels were telling them that twilight was here and they should get busy.

Because all the bugs came out, so did the birds! Cue much swooping and diving as the swallows of Windwhistle Farm enjoyed a bonus snack in the middle of the day.

Strangest of all were the sheep. As the artificial dusk gathered, the sheep clearly took this as their cue to head for the edges of the field where they normally slept at night. Slightly confused, they set off for the stone walls, softly chewing. Then, when the path of totality hit them, they all stopped dead in their tracks and remained motionless until the light had returned.

In the meantime, we humans had caught glimpses of the sun through the cloud, and could see chunks being taken from the circle. It was also rather disturbing to see a long black line cutting across the landscape and heading our way – as the shadow of the moon fell onto the earth.

Cloudy or no, I know this much, it got bloomin’ dark and it was very exciting. On the opposite side of the river someone set off a firework.

After the eclipse was over, we headed back into town and I purchased a lovely silver ring which depicted the phases of a solar eclipse, made especially by a local jeweler for the occasion. Then, we went to a tearoom and had a huge cream tea. When in Devon, etc.

Another reason why it will not matter if it is cloudy tomorrow: the eclipse will give me an excuse to go to a stone circle. Of course, I could go there any time, and I drive past them frequently. I also take groups of tourists round. But I rarely go on my own account, for the fun of it – there’s always work to go to or studying to be done or admin for various other things I’m involved in.

At the Ring of Brodgar I will also hang out with some pals – always a nice thing to do (and likewise, probably something I don’t do enough).

It will give me the perfect opportunity to wear my eclipse ring AND my Ring of Brodgar ring.

Above all, I will be thinking of the people who built the stone circle thousands of years ago and wondering what they would have made of an eclipse. Was it the Gods speaking to them? Was it a punishment or a boon? Was it a sign of a good or bad year ahead? Either way, we will stand in the footsteps of our ancestors and look at the sky and wonder!

Enjoy the spectacle and stay safe.

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The Dragon Returns

Hello folks, and welcome back. Sort of. Although this is a newly launched blog, it is actually the third incarnation of Stromness Dragon after the dearly-departed original BBC Island Blogging, and the independently hosted Island Blogging (also now defunct, set up and run by a fellow called Les who moved to Lewis).

Until something pops into my brain, I thought I would track down some of my old posts and stick them up. A revisiting of old glories for some, a brand new experience for others, and a way for me to edit out some of the more obvious howlers and any escapades which might compromise my *ahem* professional integrity.

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