When I grow tired of London

The house that squares up to the mountains

I’m going to live in a manse in the Scottish Highlands, within striking distance of a Victorian railway station, with glass canopies and pillars with cast iron flowers. I want an honest granite house that squares up to a view of mountains and water. Fit for a minister, his wife, four children, and domestic, the manse has grounds (unmaintained), outhouses (unconverted), and fishing rights (mainly pike). The chimneys lean towards Charles Rennie Mackintosh, but the architect is unknown. The rooms are generously proportioned, and sparsely furnished. There are more bedrooms than a bachelor could need, and not quite enough bathrooms.

The manse is set well back from the road, invisible to traffic on the A9. On rare days when the clouds have lifted, the view of the Cairngorms makes you want to stop and stare. There is no heating to speak of, and lighting fires between March and October is forbidden. There are potholes in the unmetalled track to deter visitors. I am furious when intruders come to picnic by the river. The midges drive them away.

I will have a manservant called Duncan who seldom speaks. Duncan does everything. He runs the house, grows vegetables, chops wood, and fixes the car. Duncan knows what I am thinking before I do. Duncan reads books about the Second World War, and keeps a firearm that he knows how to use.

I will drive a beaten up second hand car, a Bristol, or some classic tourer that has not been driven by James Bond. For entertainment I drive recklessly into Inverness, and drink gin at the Station Hotel. I post letters in the antique post box. Sometimes I enjoy myself too much to drive home. The hotel staff, who all know me, arrange parking for the car, and a bed for me.

I am on speaking terms with my distant neighbours, most of whom could be extras in the Carroll / Donat version of ‘The 39 Steps”. We hail each other at the annual Highland Gathering, and, more often, at Tesco’s in Inverness, when I am stocking up on malts, and other essentials.

People bracket my name with Fitzroy Maclean, Patrick Leigh Fermor, and Compton McKenzie. I have Whisky Galore in my cellar.  I write prickly prose and poetry in 72 page notebooks bequeathed to me by Muriel Spark from the stock she acquired from James Thin in Edinburgh. People think I am writing a great work. I will never complete it.

Increasingly, I am absent from the manse. People say I am doing something ‘hush hush’. In fact, I am sailing around the Mediterranean with a troupe of dancers from the Royal Ballet, drinking gin martinis with friends up at their villas. I repay their hospitality with advice on what to plant in a hot border. When it comes to drought tolerant plants, I am a fount of knowledge. Small wonder I never made much of the bog garden at the manse. I’m going to give up the manse. It’s just not a realistic proposition.

What is the point of funerals?

Church of Scotland, Colonsay

Is it to pay one’s respects to the deceased?

Perhaps. But surely the deceased would have preferred a visit from us before they died? Or maybe not?

Is there a health and safety issue?

Without a doubt. Bodies decay, and must be safely disposed of.

Why go to funerals?

To make sure that the person has actually died? If we didn’t go to funerals, could there be some lurking doubt that one’s partner / spouse / child / friend / relative / neighbour / co-worker had not died, and instead, had gone, without leaving an address, to Rome, or some other paradise with no wi-fi?

Is it to give thanks for a beautiful life?

Yes, partly. But how to behave when the officiant stumbles through a potted version of a life that doesn’t chime with what you remember? Keep silent? Maybe. I want to get up and say: “You haven’t mentioned…”, or, “Really?”, and even, “You can’t have known them very well, because if you had…”.

Are funerals cathartic?

It depends. Sharing memories about the person who has died can help to mitigate the pain. Connecting with people they knew, and loved, can be life-affirming. There is some truth, I think, in what a friend said to me, when I told her I was not looking forward to a particular funeral: “Don’t worry. You always meet someone nice and unexpected, at a funeral”. And, in fact, at the last funeral I attended, I did meet two unexpectedly nice families.

Why do older people go to funerals?

Why do we expect very elderly, bereaved people to walk, sit, and stand, when plainly, they need help? Why ask the physically frail to stand for the committal? Have we no compassion?

Why do younger people go to funerals?

Is it all “Carpe Diem”? Must we be confronted with the physical and mental frailty of loved ones, who once looked after us? Are funerals an automated reminder in the biggest cloud of all, that it will be our turn one day?

Town or Country? Could you live in a small island community?

Caroline and Vic catching up on their holiday reading

"I'm so tired of the squalor and the grime of the city" Richard Rodney Bennett, 1978

I remember, in the 1980s, quite sensible people decided to leave London and move to Brighton, or the West Country. ‘To hell with London’ they said.  And having packed up, and shacked up, by the sea or in the woods, how they did go on about not missing London at all.

I stayed, because I could go to ‘Pizza on the Park’ to see jazz singers like Richard Rodney Bennett and Marion Montgomery. I once heard them do “Let’s go and live in the country”. It’s a comic duet written by Bennett about a couple who flirt with the idea of living in the country, and then rush back to the city, because they are allergic to hay, and know they couldn't cope if the roof started to leak. I used to agree with them.

Recently, however, I’ve been having thoughts about going to live by the sea, getting an Irish Terrier, and growing vegetables. A short holiday in the Western Isles of Scotland gave me a chance to weigh the pros and cons of staying put, or going for a complete life change. This is what I learned.

What are the gains of island life?

• The freshest, most gulpable air. In the spring, the island air is even sweeter with the scent of bluebells.
• Being part of a real community. They have a ceilidh when they think they need one, and anyone can join the dance. Children dance with their parents, and dogs are most welcome.
• Time goes further, spread over long days and short nights. I had to learn how to take my time. When I rushed to the only shop to buy a missing ingredient for supper, the locals gently reproached me. “People are a bit more relaxed here”.
• Spirit raising views. The sea and the hills change colour with the light and the weather. Watching Rum from Eigg is like being at a Son et Lumiere show, powered by nature. The best thing about Eigg is the view of Rum, according to the people who live on Rum. But they would say that, wouldn’t they?

What do islanders give up?

• Globalisation, things like the energy crisis. Eigg produces more electricity than the residents can use
• Commuting to work; it doesn’t happen
• Any desire for national or international news. It’s irrelevant
• Having to remember to take your keys with you. No-one bothers to lock their door
• Consumerism, though the village shops are well stocked, and Amazon does good business
• Traffic, except when people are arriving or departing on the ferry
• Noise, except birdsong and – I suspect – the sound of raindrops and howling gales.

What is the person specification for an islander?

Ability to have many jobs, or none

Islanders have multiple identities, and many hold down different jobs. The Harbour Master, without whom the boat cannot arrive or depart, also drives the electric buggy, mends the road, and tends the trees. The lady who cooked you a splendid dinner, also runs the bakery. Your dance partner at the ceilidh, pops up in the tea shop to serve you coffee and cakes, and later arrives to prepare your accommodation for the next group. Everybody else is unemployed, or has no obvious responsibilities.

Tolerance

You are unlikely to take to island life unless you can learn to tolerate midges, tourists, alcohol, unpredictable weather, and things left where they were last used or needed e.g. tractors, baths, bits of machinery.

Other skills, knowledge and attitudes that will serve you well on a Scottish Island are:

• Being outdoorsy, and good with your hands
• Knowing how to chop wood, light a fire
• Ability to bake a cake
• Ability to take a car engine to pieces and reassemble it
• Ability to get on with wide range of people
• Stamina to help you party all of the night, and into the next day
• For men, a beard is almost essential.

After a week exploring the Western Isles of Scotland, beautiful as it was, I think I will stay in the city, and holiday in the country. I am allergic to hay, and if the roof began to leak, I would definitely need a man with a beard. 

Thanks to everyone living in the small isles who made us feel welcome.

Song: ‘Let’s go and live in the country’1978, Richard Rodney Bennett

8 June 2013

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www.kellowlearning.com

Who was that person?

‘Who was that person?’

Who did you meet recently who made you feel glad to be alive? Who made you laugh out loud? Who shared something with you that made you want to do more / learn more? Perhaps they shared an experience, an insight, a book or a film, or even a dream they had last night? Like the lady in the cheese shop who told me that she had dreamt she was cutting cheese. In her dream she could feel the texture of the cheese as she was cutting. "That's unusual", she said.

‘I just met a wonderful girl / guy…’

I’ve been meeting a lot of new people, recently. I can’t help noticing there are some people I am really glad to have met. They leave a warm impression. I think about them next day, and the day after. I tell my friends about them.  And there are others, who, though I spent time with them, I just didn’t meet.

Block Button Blues

The people I didn’t meet are ‘the blockers’. There are at least two types of blockers: conscious and unconscious. The conscious blockers don’t ask, or tell, because they don't need to. They know everything. The unconscious blockers are not aware that they could ask, but they do like to tell. Conscious blockers have their block button permanently set to 'On'. Unconscious blockers talk ‘at me’ about themselves, until I can find an excuse to move on. I prefer not to use the block button, if I can possibly avoid it.

It’s all about connecting

The reason why I am thinking about good and bad conversations, is that I am learning to be an executive coach. One of the things I have learned is that coaches don’t need tools and techniques. The key to being an effective coach is to focus on what is happening in the space between the coach and the coachee. Coaches have to be fully present, and be willing to disclose their thoughts and feelings, provided they do this in the service of their clients' learning. It’s all about connecting.

Marvellous meetings

Some of my best conversations recently have been with complete strangers: a very cool Jamaican grandfather, who I met with his daughter, and granddaughters, in the queue for David Hockney at the Royal Academy; a funny, original Turkish businesswoman on a flight from Istanbul to London; a straight-talking Scottish fundraiser in Oxford who, like me, loves St Andrews in Scotland. There was a kind of energy and openness between us that made the time pass quickly.    

Memorable meetings

You can’t expect to connect with everyone you meet, I hear you say. And yet, one of my beliefs is that it is important to be curious about the people around you. You never know who they are, what they do, or who they know. You don’t know what opportunities there might be for something new and good to come out of conversation with this person. You might learn something. You might be able to help each other in some way. Or you might just spend a few very pleasant moments in a queue, on a plane, or a train. And days, or months, or years later, find yourself remembering.

Take a break: get a new perspective

I’ve just had the most wonderful experience walking with a friend in Torridon, North West Scotland. Only a week ago, we were taking in the beauty of the Cairngorm valley from the window of the Caledonian Sleeper: snow-capped mountains in the distance, stations built like Victorian hunting lodges, silver birch and Dulux white snowdrops growing by the line. Despite the inspiring view, I was worrying about work. Was there anything I had not done that I should have done? Were there things I had done that I should not have done? Even though I slept soundly on the train, I could still feel the ties that bind me to work.

The power of time, distance and novelty 

Removing myself from a situation and waking up in a totally different environment can help to reduce my killer sense of responsibility for everything. After a cooked breakfast at the station hotel, I felt the ties weakening. Maybe it was admiring the grand hotel staircase that is the original of the one in The Titanic. Probably it was the black pudding that helped most. Meeting the owl from the Harry Potter films outside Inverness M & S was magical. With one eye closed and one eye open, she turned her head from side to side like a clockwork toy. I couldn’t help noticing that the owl’s keeper looked very like an owl himself, with his owlish glasses and long snowy white hair. Time, distance and novelty all helped to make me feel less responsible for everything.

Take a SMART challenge

Walking in Torridon for the first time helped me to focus on a practical and immediate goal: getting to Coire Mhic Fhearchair and back safely. Unlike my never ending ‘to do’ list at work, a guided hill walk is a SMART challenge. You know where you are going (specific) and how far you will have to walk (measurable). By turning up you agree (agreed) to the route.  Your guide has assessed your fitness for the walk (realistic) and you know roughly how long the walk will take (timebound). Ryan, our guide, showed us the remains of a Lancaster bomber that crashed in Coire Mhic Fhearchair in 1951. He had recently taken part in a ceremony to mark the 60^th anniversary of the crash. Someone had cut the wreath from the skeletal wing of the plane.

The Importance of Treats

When you have walked to one of the most beautiful places in the world, it’s quite all right to stop for tea and scones. A gin martini can add value to the view from the hotel of the loch and the mountains. It would be impolite not to drink local beer and eat haggis with 2 GPs, an anaethetist, and an accountant in the bar. Talking nonsense to strangers is a good way to see how far you can reinvent yourself. Losing (respectably) at the pub quiz is part of the fun.

Cathedrals in the sky

The hills of Torridon look as if Andy Goldsworthy has arranged them. They guard the entrances to valleys like sphinxes. They change colour in the evening sun. Scottish hills are a bit of a tease. Sometimes they hide in the clouds. Just when you have forgotten about his existence, Ben Eighe will reappear. Several walkers in our group said that being in the mountains gives them a sense of humility. Ryan McLean, our mountain guide, has lived in Torridon all his life. When challenged by the local minister to come to church, Ryan told him that walking in the mountains is his equivalent of going to church. Seeing the mountains through Ryan’s eyes made me question why I live in London. If you want a different perspective, try going for a walk in the hills of Torridon. 

http://www.thetorridon.com/inn/