Edinburgh
Blue-Eyed Son
I’ve personally never actually gone through that phase of wondering if I was adopted … too many strong familial traits from both sides to allow of any doubt! But it’s a topic that’s certainly come under the microscope in my professional life in relation to medical ethics.
Radio presenter and TV personality, Nicky Campbell, always knew he was adopted and it seems appropriate to talk about his story in the week a teacher whom he accused of abuse during the 60s and 70s has been named – hitherto this man was a ‘protected person’ legally.
Nicky was fortunate enough to be brought up by a strong loving family. Dad was a map publisher and erstwhile major in the Indian army; Mum a psychiatric social worker. They had one other child, Fiona, five years older, and were keen to adopt to give her a sibling after four miscarriages. A GP friend who knew Nicky’s biological mother, made the necessary arrangements. Those were the days!!
Though they were not well off, his parents paid for a private education for him in Edinburgh, and he graduated with a degree in History from Aberdeen University, before moving into the world of radio and TV where he became something of a celebrity. So content and safe was he in this warm and loving family that he felt no need to try to find his biological family until he was 29 and going through an emotional quagmire himself, a slough of marital despond, as he phrases it.
His autobiographical book, Blue-Eyed Son: The Story of an Adoption, has instant impact:
I was committing adultery in Room 634 of the Holiday Inn in Birmingham when my wife rang to say they’d found my mother. It was ten thirty on Saturday morning.
Biological mother is Stella, an Irish protestant, well educated, and aged 37, respected Matron of a hospital in Dublin, when she had him in Portobello, near Edinburgh, beside the sea.
I was born at 8 a.m. on 10 April 1961 … in an out-of-the-way downstairs room at [my mother Stella’s] Portobello digs … I arrived after only an hour’s labour and was delivered by the landlady Mrs Blackie herself with Stella, who was of course a qualified midwife, yelling instructions through the pain.
Stella was inconsolable when she walked away from her baby boy aged 5 days, an emotion Nicky could only really appreciate when he had his own children. But he recognised that times, pressures and prejudices back then were very different. Stella had already given up another baby, Dierdre, eighteen months before. He was picked up by his new family at one month. For three years Stella inquired about her baby boy from the GP, but then severed the link. Later she was diagnosed with manic depression, and she harboured other deep-seated issues: she never forgot or forgave her fiance (a doctor) who betrayed her with a young nurse while Stella was in hospital with TB. Her subsequent marriage to a violent and ‘satanic’ Irish ‘gnome’, who beat her all the time, lasted only four and a half years.
At the point in his life when Nicky met Stella for the first time, his own state of emotional turmoil left him with limited resources to respond to her emotional needs or understand them. But by the time he was united with his sister Deirdre (by now known as Esther) he was in a much better place in a new more stable relationship with his future wife Tina. The two siblings developed strong bonds.
It was a further twelve years, and three children later, before he began the search for his biological father. Joseph was a Catholic policeman, and a lot younger than Stella. Nicky and he established an instant rapport. They had the same blue eyes, the same stubby fingers, unmistakably father and son, and again, Nicky discovered a raft of new relatives came in the package. But when Joseph shared his political thoughts and aspirations, Nicky discovered a serious mismatch between the principles of his adoptive Protestant father and the philosophy of his biological one. He struggled to reconcile their different value systems and judgements. Which inheritance would he lay claim to? It was Joseph who summed it up:
I’d have no right to judge you. Just a duty to understand.
And that’s exactly the philosophy Nicky tried to espouse.
Alongside the exploration of his own lineage and inheritance, Nicky shared his sister Esther’s search for her biological father, and they together discovered unexpected links in their history, alongside jointly building a relationship with each other and with their mother.
Last year Campbell attracted media attention by revealing the sexual and sadistic abuse which took place at his private school when he was ten, but this has not been allowed to dominate the main story of his adoption in this book. It’s a very personal account, the more colourful for the backdrop of the Irish troubles, but through it all the bonds of family and shared history emerge as beyond price.
50th anniversary
The Christian Aid Book Sale in Edinburgh’s George Street has just celebrated its 50th anniversary. Fifty years! And it has shown all the enthusiasm and vigour of former years pre-pandemic; no hint of jaded spirits that I could see.
Both altruism and the printed book are still very much alive and well. Wahey!
The setting in St Andrew’s and St George’s West Church’s magnificent building is stunning,
… with the space inside on two levels filled with books, all carefully categorised,
… spilling out in abundance into the surrounding courtyard.
The message and cause are abundantly evident within and without …
From the volunteers efficiently and cheerfully emptying boxes of books from our cars beforehand (and we had the contents of two people’s libraries as well as several cartons of our own books to contribute this year), to those manning the stalls on the very last day, we met only smiles and helpfulness.
And the sheer volume of books shows no sign of diminishing. Table after table of boxes of novels and non-fiction,
… and an impressive display of more expensive rarer tomes, not to mention all the cards and ephemera and music and toys and jigsaws.
There were pearls to be had everywhere, too. I loved this little volume of The Book of Nonsense with hand-painted pictures!
And this delightful 1990 edition of the much loved Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, written by TS Eliot for his godchildren and friends in the 1930s.
As if this whole enterprise were not enough to oversee, the convenor, Lady Mary Davidson, somehow manages to hand-write personal letters to us authors who donate copies of our books. Not after the event, or at some comfortable time in the future; oh no! but immediately, during all the hullabaloo of preparation. Impressive, or what?
I salute every volunteer giving of themselves to this brilliantly worthwhile charitable event, a cause very dear to my heart. You have pulled off another major triumph.
(Apologies for the amateurish photos taken in my phone as I browsed.)
A tribute to writers everywhere
Much of what we writers do is unseen and unsung. However, some people do manage to eke out a living from their scribbling. Occasionally a particular book or name becomes a sensation. Very occasionally an author gets applause or awards. Very very occasionally one becomes a household name.
But if you‘re a writer and feeling overlooked and unappreciated, just think for a moment of Sir Walter Scott – 19th century Scottish historical novelist, poet, playwright and historian. How cool is it for an auithor to have a massive Victorian Gothic monument built to commemorate him? It’s a landmark in Edinburgh, slap bang in the capital’s most famous street, Princes Street; the second biggest monument to an author anywhere in the world.
I stood and stared at it this week, and thought of all those people whose words I’ve loved, whose productivity I’ve admired, who I would pop into that arched edifice alongside Scott. It already has sixteen Scottish poets and writers appearing at the top of the lower pilasters, alongside many many other famous figures. But today I want to pay tribute to countless others who have influenced and affected and charmed and impressed me, and even changed the world because of their skill with words. I salute them all … and the gifted photographers who allowed me to share their superb images.
Coffin Road
If I were given the choice of where to live out six months of quarantine from a deadly virus, one of my first choices would be Luskentyre on the Isle of Harris. It’s breathtaking. Mesmerisingly, deeply, stunningly. Silver sands, clear turquoise water, utter tranquility.
The sea breathes gently upon the shore, phosphorescent foam bursting silver bubbles over gold.
But wild and unforgiving when ferocious storms sweep in across 3000 miles of uninterrupted ocean.
To set a dark and murderous tale against such loveliness seems somehow both incongruous and inspired. But that’s what Peter May has done. It’s only two years since I walked on those unbelievable beaches, drove along those deserted coastal roads, felt the icy salt-laden air roaring in off the Atlantic, so I had to read Coffin Road, and re-imagine the scenery he conjures up so vividly, my own personal memories enhancing enjoyment of his compelling storytelling.
A man washes up on the beach near his house not knowing who he is or where he is or what has happened to him. He’s wearing a life jacket which has saved his life, but why was he in the sea and why is there a terrible sense of dark foreboding hanging over him, a sense of knowing that something terrible has happened? Has he committed some sort of crime? Why is someone threatening his life now? The only clue to his identity is a folded map of a path named Coffin Road.
‘I cannot even begin to describe how dissociating it is to look at yourself without recognition. As if you belong somewhere outside of this alien body you inhabit. As if you have simply borrowed it, or it has borrowed you, and neither belongs to the other.’
An elderly woman recognises him, drenched and dazed, and walks him to his house; she calls him ‘Mr MacLean’. But there’s nothing in the house to give him any clues as to his identity. Even his computer seems to be wiped clean: nothing but blinking emptiness, even in the trash can. How can every trace of him have been removed so comprehensively?
By dint of careful listening without betraying his amnesia, he learns from neighbours that his first name is Neal, and he’s an academic from Edinburgh, writing a book about three lighthouse keepers who mysteriously vanished from Eilean Mòr, one of seven islands in the Flannan Isles to the west of the Outer Hebridean coast. It’s supposedly almost finished. But he quickly establishes that this isn’t, in reality, true. So who IS he, and why has he been lying about his life and reasons for being on Harris?
When a bludgeoned corpse is found on the very island Neal had visited he has a fearful dread that he must have been responsible for it. And since he can’t answer any of the police detective’s questions satisfactorily, they too believe he must be the guilty man.
Meanwhile miles away in Edinburgh, a teenage girl is desperate to discover the truth behind her scientist father’s suicide. Why did he abandon her? Was she to blame? Her last cruel words to him will be forever printed indelibly in her mind. Her quest takes her into grave danger and threatens to blow open a secret that could jeopardise the future of the human race and the planet.
I don’t want to give away any spoilers, but another aspect of this story that resonated with me, is that it involves bees, and we actually have three hives in our garden. We’re very aware of the essential role they play in the food-chain and existence of life on this planet, and watch anxiously if there is any hint of danger to them. So it was weirdly spooky when, coincidentally, as I was reading Coffin Road, our own bees swarmed no less than three times in two days! Unprecendented. Sent a shiver down my spine, adding to the sense of total immersion in this story.
I’m a fan of Peter May, as regular readers know, so I’m hoping to use the extra time of lockdown to start the famous Lewis Trilogy next. It’s been waiting for just such an opportunity. And revisiting the landscape of the Outer Hebrides through Coffin Road, has put me thoroughly in the mood.
Let’s celebrate! Books, books and more books
Yep, it’s Christian Aid Book Sale time again in Edinburgh. I was there at St George’s and St Andrew’s in George Street at opening time on Day 2 this year surrounded by over 100,000 secondhand books of every genre, fact and fiction, filling the sanctuary and both courtyards. Imagine! The sun was beating down on us, the mood everywhere was upbeat and busy … I was like a pig in muck! And I picked up no less than fifteen paperbacks! … what? … yes, of course I paid for them! It’s a cause very dear to my heart.
I missed getting the whole set of Peter May‘s The Lewis Trilogy by a whisker – and I even refrained from challenging or cheating the lady who found them two seconds ahead of me but put them down while she continued searching. My honesty and magnanimity was rewarded however, by my finding two other copies in boxes under the tables, and I immediately ordered the third one when I got home – a treat in store.
And another first … there was one of my own used novels nestling amidst all the Maggie O’Farrells and Alexander McCall Smiths and Ian Rankins and JK Rowlings. It felt very grown up!
But as every year, the biggest thrill is seeing so many people browsing and buying and discussing books. So confirming. The written word, the hold-in-your-hand real copy, is very much alive and well.
Literary triumphs
I have the great good fortune to live just outside one of the most famous literary cities in the world: Edinburgh. Numerous well-known writers have – and still do – stalked its streets, culled from its haunts, woven its magic into their books. I’ve been thoroughly enjoying exploring its streets all over again taking visitors to see its picturesque closes and wynds and courtyards and beautiful buildings – including The Writers’ Museum pictured here.
And as we gear up to the biggest international arts festival in the world, it seems an appropriate time to add my own homage to one of the most enduring names in fiction ever: Emily Brontë, whose special bicentennial anniversary we remember this year. Wouldn’t she herself be completely stunned by all the hype!!
Two hundred years ago, in 1818, this girl was born in Yorkshire into obscurity, the fifth child of an impoverished clergyman and his wife. She was a weak timid little thing, who found school too daunting, so she spent her childhood at home reading avidly and scribbling stories and poems of her own. A brief skirmish with teaching in her adult years in an effort to contribute to the family’s meagre income met with similar discord, and back she went to the peace and anonymity of the rectory, and the quiet influence of a bookish, creative environment.
So oppressed were women in her day that she and her sisters, Charlotte and Anne, all published their writing under male pseudonyms. Emily’s was Ellis Bell. Much they wrote sank into oblivion, but, as I’m sure you know, her one outstanding work, Wuthering Heights, published in 1847, proved hugely popular and remains a classic to this day.
Having already lost three siblings and her mother, Emily’s young life was overshadowed by struggle, death and despair, and perhaps it was that which coloured her own writing, and lead to the melancholy tale of bleak love and dark revenge we know and revere today. Heathcliffe has to be one of the most bitter, haunted and vengeful fictional heroes of all time.
How sad that this reclusive figure didn’t live long enough to see her creation achieve success; she was a mere thirty years of age when she caught a chill at her brother Bramwell’s funeral, developed TB and died, six days before Christmas. But how doubly heartening that the world pays tribute to her still.
And now I’m preparing for a whirl of amazing cultural experiences as we take friends and relations to the huge range of performances on offer. All this on our doorstop … most fortunate indeed.
Hazards aplenty
As they say, no experiences are wasted for a writer. Not even negative ones.
It’s that time again – the annual giant Christian Aid Sale held in the splendid premises of St Andrew’s and St George’s West Church in the centre of Edinburgh. Selling thousands upon thousands of books, art works, ephemera, music, their aspirations are as high as their steeple: it’s always mobbed, and I, as any writer would, rejoice each year that physical books are still so very much alive.
Each year I go at least twice – once to deliver copies of my own books (as requested) before it opens, once to buy – and every time I’m staggered at the number of helpers involved, cheerful kindly people who don’t bat an eyelid when someone asks for a specific title or six, or hands them a large note expecting lots of small change. Such calm under pressure is a joy to behold. This time my second trip was about an hour after the doors opened. First impressions were fantastic – bright sunshine, happy fresh assistants, orderly boxes of books, hundreds of avid readers milling everywhere. The gangways between the trellis tables are narrow so you don’t need to be squeamish about bodily contact, and you are expected to take responsibility for your own health and safety – unmarked steps, dips underfoot, minor obstacles aplenty. But the atmosphere is relaxed and convivial, and there’s plenty of give and take.
So black marks to the folk who parked empty wheelchairs and buggies right across pathways, who thought it expedient to gather right beside the tables to natter, who spread their possessions over the boxes while they browsed denying others access, or who left their long-suffering husbands on corners necessitating inconvenient detours down steps and onto the road. And a special penalty to the two who trundled enormous hard suitcases right through the masses with sublime disregard for ankles and shins – yep, I was one of the victims. But I escaped with no lasting damage and a modest collection of purchases, and I raise a salute to the wonderful people who give their time and energies so tirelessly to this excellent cause and come up smiling.
Rather stupidly I went with two specific authors in mind – Stephen King and Mary Elizabeth Braddon – and before you ask, no, I certainly didn’t ask any of the volunteers for them! There was no evidence of either, but I was thinking about King as the bus trundled me home. He has a neat way of expressing what I’m thinking about. Take this thought:
I’ve always wondered who I am when I write because once I’m doing it, I’m not in the room with myself.
It takes me a while to find myself again after an intense period of writing, and it certainly did the following night when I was deep in a psychological discussion with my characters. Only vaguely did I become aware of a rumpus outside … raised voices … smoke … hello? DJ had managed to set the garden shed alight and the air was alive with the sound of helpful neighbours sounding warnings and thick acrid smoke! By the time I’d re-entered the real world, DJ had the garden hose on full-tilt, damping down the smouldering structure, someone had called the fire brigade, and a crisis had been narrowly averted. I was left with no role other than redundant spectator. As the reassuring operations commander said, surveying the canisters of gas, tins of paint and fuel, and sundry other inflammables, laid out on the path afterwards: it could have been a whole lot worse. So, again, not much significant damage mercifully, but a few revisions to the to-do list and some changed priorities.
I might be dealing with mounting horror in my fictional world but it’s still a safer place than the here-and-now it seems!
Let’s hear it for the book!
It’s May … Christian Aid week again … which means the monarch of all secondhand book sales. Each year the St Andrew’s and St George’s West Church in George Street in Edinburgh hosts this fantastic week long event to help address world poverty. Since it started in 1974 the sale has raised in excess of £2m for the charity.
Preparation goes on for weeks beforehand involving over 500 volunteers, local authors bring along signed copies of their work, some people bequeath whole libraries to them, countless anonymous people donate their discard-able tomes. And by the time the doors open to the public, over 100,000 books of every kind fill the sanctuary, balconies and both courtyards, rare and valuable items rubbing shoulders with the run-of-the-mill. 100,000 books! Bliss.
Unusually this year I went along on Saturday’s opening day just half an hour after the doors opened. There was already an excited buzz outside on the pavement …
as well as inside …
Plenty of ‘excuse me’s, jostling elbows/large bags, competitive reaching. Long arms and good vision a definite advantage.
This early on there was good evidence of order with books by the same author gathered into boxes, and I could only dimly conceive of the mammoth task that involved. And yet I still heard one customer asking if they were arranged in alphabetical order! The remarkably tolerant volunteer said apologetically, ‘Sorry. There just wasn’t time for that.’ Bless her. Of course, it was the beginning of the week long effort … and the rain was holding off … and the snell east wind had abated. She could still feel her fingers and toes and didn’t have rain dripping off the polythene covers onto her trousers. But even so.
So the customer must tour the tables, row after row after row of them, grouped under banner signposts to find the titles they’re after. Specialised non-fiction tomes and sets varying in price; most hard-cover novels £2 a pop; paperbacks £1. Amazing bargains. And I’m sure many people cheerfully stump up far more than the asking price.
Inside the stalls range from the obscure to the classical and there are phenomenal bargains to be had. Having just read about the illuminators of ancient Turkey, this intriguing book held my attention.
But despite the serious temptation, I limited my own purchases to one carriable-home-on-the-bus bag which included these novels …
But my biggest kick came from standing on the balcony watching all these earnest browsers digging into boxes on every topic you can think of. Wanting, buying, loving books! Yep, the real hold-in-your-hand hard copy book is certainly nowhere near in terminal decline. Half-way round I beat a retreat to the basement cafe to fortify myself for a second wave of literary rummaging and then discovering more lovely and unusual finds in the antiques and collectables department.
Huge congratulations to all who sustain this brilliant endeavour.
Are you sitting comfortably?
May Bank Holiday included a couple of National Trust properties for me this year – Cragside House in Northumberland and Acorn Bank in Cumbria – fascinating places with rich histories, each in their own way evocative of a bygone age. So I thought I’d give you faithful followers a little holiday too, take you to some wonderfully inviting places to sit, to write, to read, simply to meditate. (Apologies for the quality of some of the pictures – taken on my iPad so limited control.)
Imagine for yourself what the peace, the serenity, the ambience, would conjure up in your mind.
At Cragside
A sumptuous Victorian Country house, the first in the world to be lit by hydroelectric power. So let your thoughts roam free as you …
sit surrounded by fantastic gardens …
in elegant rooms …
beside roaring fires …
in the midst of enormous wealth and inheritance …
looking over fabulous views …
Acorn Bank
A virtually empty-at-the-moment 13th century building spanning occupancy by the Knights Templar through to the Sue Ryder Foundation before becoming a national treasure. So imagine again where your thoughts would roam …
sitting in a chair once occupied by a renowned writer …
snuggling up in window seats …
Feel any historical novels coming on?!
How about sitting alone in the fragrance of a well stocked herb garden …
The NT are alive to opportunities; I found seats beckoning me everywhere I went. What’s more the beautiful dovecot building at Acorn Bank has been given over to reading. It houses secondhand books alongside a lovely comfy chair and even 3-for-2 offers!
What more could a writer visitor from Scotland ask for? Well, maybe a book about Edinburgh …
Happy days.