Kinnoull Hill Autumn

CD Review: North by John Lees' Barclay James Harvest

After a break from recording for almost fifteen years veteran English rock band Barclay James Harvest have returned with a fine collection of songs, which band leader John Lees hinted might be their final album. Since BJH began working in the late 1960s, they have moved through several creative periods, drawing in different stages of their careers on orchestral work, folk, prog, pop, in the 70s before re-launching themselves as European stadium rock band in the 80s, while the 90s were dominated by creative tensions between the different songwriters and their favoured styles - culminating in the dissolution of the original band in 1997. John Lees' version of the band have sought to continue the classic rock sound of the band's earlier, most creatively fertile period, while Les Holroyd's band favour the 80s sound on the European gig circuit to this day.

North is a distinctively Barclay James Harvest album with all the trademarks of that name; great melodies, interesting arrangements, lyrical intrigue, lush vocal harmonies, solid rhythms, moody keyboards and soaring guitar lines; constructed with a delicacy which is often described as 'pastoral'. Barclay James Harvest has a large and unusually devoted following, and there is plenty here for their traditional fans to enjoy. There are however a few surprises in store as there are new departures to be found on North as well as the band explore new territory in several of the songs.

The album opens with what to my mind is its weakest song, "If You Were Here Now", a light radio-friendly pop ballad. Although Craig Fletcher sings very well elsewhere on the album, the opening vocals are fragile and sound unfinished. John Lees' finely crafted guitar lines, and the catchy chorus certainly lift the latter half of the song - but I was initially disappointed.

That disappointment didn't last long however. Ancient Waves is a classic John Lees' song invoking their great anti-war anthems of the 70s, such as Summer Soldier. Written about the Iraq War, the song imagines that voices of the souls of soldiers killed in conflict past are heard in the waves - pleading for us not to send more soldiers to kill and die. Already performed live successfully many times, this song is bound to be a favourite amongst long-time fans.

If, at the conclusion to Ancient Waves, listeners to "North", were to settle back and assume that they were in for a nostalgia-fest of songs which could have sat on BJH records like Octoberon or Time Honoured Ghosts, then "In Wonderland" would come as something of a surprise! Apparently the band nicknamed the song Steely-John in the studio, as the light but deceptively complex jazz-pop so invokes the sound of Becker and Fagen. Alongside the quirky lyrics, this is a new departure for the band, perhaps taking the trajectory Lees' hinted at in 1997's "Pool of Tears" and following through to its natural conclusion. These are the first recordings from this line up of the band, following the tragic death keyboard player Woolly Wolstenholme in 2010 - and this track demonstrates the extent to which they are a good creative unit doing different things.

The up-beat and jokey mood of "In Wonderland" crumbles with the first few notes of the sombre, "On Leave", written about the debilitating depression suffered by their friend and fellow-musician Woolly Wolstenholme, which culminated in his suicide in 2010. This is a beautiful poignant and heartfelt love-song, presented as a requiem for a fallen brother. John Lees' guitar almost seems to weep as it lays down its opening lament, before he opens up into a ballad section which simply tells the story of his decline and fall from the perspective of a helpless observer. This would have been a straightforward but profound memorial if left there - but the band have much more to say about Woolly both lyrically and musically. To the sound of storms and falling rain they shift gear into 5/8 for a sung/chanted section which documents much about Woollys state of mind, before another gear change into alternating bars of 5/8, 6/8 for a complex guitar solo, followed by a 6/8 keyboard solo. This is a dramatic, compelling and musically interesting section of which Woolly (who had always wanted to push the bands musical boundaries) would surely have approved. The song ends with a bolder, more majestic re-statement of the opening guitar lament. The combination of the blunt, but heartfelt lyrics, and the power and beauty of this music make listening to it an emotional experience. I suspect that people who knew Woolly personally will have found this especially so. Little embellishments demonstrate how much love and care went into this song, while John Lees' sings of Woolly, "haunted by the old; hounded by the new", keyboard player Jez Smith underlays his words with trademark Woolly Mellotron sounds from the bands early albums. On Leave is a tremendous tribute to a much missed friend and colleague.

The mood and the rhythm doesn't remain static for long on this album however, as the next song, "The Real Deal" is a driving up-tempo rocker. Criticised by some fans for being too derivative of other 70s hard rock bands, my judgement is that this is hard rock song that John Lees has been striving towards for some time, with mixed results until now. In the original Barclay James Harvest John recorded a few songs which were straightforward rockers like Panic or the much derided Spud-U-like, which failed to impress because they lacked the aggressive intent which their genre and shape required. I suspect that Polydor's determination to push BJH in a MOR direction had much to do with the 'teeth' being pulled from these songs - something which I am sure Craig Fletcher (bass/vox) and Kev Whitehead (drums) were not going to allow to happen here. My one criticism is that the songs is too long, the chorus repeated too many times, without any musical changes to sustain interest, but the Kevin Peek like guitar solo soars over the song, and Whitehead gives it some real welly on the kit (he also drums for Dare), while Craig's vocals work especially well on this type of song.

The next surprise for BJH fans is "On Top of The World". Many of the songs on this album relate to aspects of life in the North of England where the band are all from, and where it was written, and recorded. This song is about the loss of the mining industry and the effect it had on the families of the miners, left with little but the friendships and music forged in working days. The surprise is that Fletchers vocals are laid over a brass band, with only a little piano to add variety. John Lees' love of brass is well documented, as are his son's skills as a cornet player. A little flourish of a cornet solo added to the structure of a regular song from the four members of the band would have been pleasant but unsurprising; the "Frugal Horns"! in all their glory is a wonderful sound however. The fact that (just as with Real Deal) the band have had the confidence to go all the way with their musical ideas, rather than just blending in a hint of this or that into their traditional sound is what sets North apart as an album. It may be too varied an album as a result, but I think John Lees has always been at his best when pushing himself, taking risks and not reigning in his musical and creative ideas. 

Unreservedly Yours is the one recording on the album I already owned before I got the CD, as it had already been released as a downloadable single earlier in the year. It's a jaunty little piece of 6/8, celebrating the joy of lifelong love and one of only two weaker songs on the album. It wouldn't have been my choice as a single to take from it to promote the CD.

"North", the album's title track in contrast is magnificent, which along with Ancient Waves and the wonderful On Leave form a trio of latter-day BJH classics. The song begins by lyrically and musically describing images of the North; of bleak moors, ice on windows, abandoned factories, and children playing in the streets. John Lees' half-whispered vocal is a nice creative flourish; before the song lifts with some great playing, and change of vocals and a lyrical shift present a different picture, the other side of The North. This is brilliant writing, and very good performance - a really, really good song.

John Lees Barclay James Harvest complete this album with a final surprise, and another departure from the expected formula. Over music they have especially composed, Lees recites a poem by Ammon Wrigley, a noted early 20th colloquial poet from the bands own Saddleworth neighbourhoods. Surely, Lees has Wolstenholme in view when he intones: 

Two gods watched o'er a young Norse birth

The god of ale, and the god of mirth.

Says mellow ale, "This child's my own"

"No, no", says mirth, "Not thine alone".

So each agreed to take a part,

Ale seized his throat, and Mirth his heart.

And made him together what people may ken

The best of cronies and the straightest of men

The best of cronies and the straightest of men.

North is a really good, album which I have played and played since its release. It is an essential purchase for fans of Barclay James Harvest, which stands firmly in the tradition of the great albums that band made between 1968 and 1979; with enough new twists and turns to make it full of surprises. The band take to the road in November, I'm hoping to catch them in Edinburgh,

www.barclayjamesharvest.com

Yorkshire Funghi

Book Notes: Stasiland by Anna Funder

The collapse of The Soviet Block of Eastern European Marxist-Leninist states was probably the most major geo-political shift in my lifetime. Such realignments in world politics maybe only occur once or twice a century, and to have watched the process of the decline and fall of Stalin's Empire as a teenager was thrilling. It was so intriguing in fact, that I went on to study it at University in the mid-90s. From that tumultuous historical period there is an image which seems to summarise so much of what occurred - which is of Berliner's smashing down the Berlin Wall, which had divided their city into Capitalist and Communist zones since 1961.

This revolution was observed by the Australian journalist Anna Funder who had lived in Berlin for several years. While the collapse of the wall meant freedom for many on the GDR, looking eastwards Funder was intrigued by what the GDR had meant and set out to explore it. She did this during a period in which there was much pressure to airbrush the GDR from history in a mass exercise in forgetting which Funder likens to the de-Nazification programme of the late 40s. The wall itself she notes is a symbol of this, which apart from one rebuilt 'museum' section has been completely hidden and it is now impossible to trace much of its route without a map.

Funder's exploration of life in the East German state focussed on the Stasi, the men from the Ministry of State Security whose grip on the lives of ordinary East Germans was almost absolute. In her travels and interviews she met many victims of Stasi persecution, those kept apart from loved ones over the wall, those who tried to escape and became enemies of the State, those denied careers and jobs because of their unfortunate capacity for independent thought, those who were tortured, or who lost loved ones to prison brutality. The stories are moving, chilling, and cripplingly sad, especially as the psychological torture of victims continues. She also talks to those who are struggling not to be forgotten in the new Germany which seemed too busy with the massive process of reunification to really bother with their calls for justice, or even simply for access to Stasi files to find out what really happened to their husbands, brothers, children..

While that alone would have made an interesting book, Funder went further. In the years after German reunification, she placed adverts in the press asking former Stasi men to come and speak to her. Maybe surprisingly many of them responded to her request. They proved to be a varied and complex group of old men. Some were still ideologically committed, militant in their Stalinism, and unrepentant about Stasi crimes, which they still defended in the old redundant language of the necessity of the dictatorship of the proletariat to seize power and defend the constructing of a perfect workers state from constant infiltration of western bourgeoise and fascist ideas, and products. Old propogandists like Karl-Eduard von Schnitzler are pictured in their East Berlin apartments, still angrily denouncing the west, beneath their busts of Marx and Stalin. Others, though were less nostalgic for the old days, and looked back regretfully on mistakes made. One for instance has nothing but contempt for the society which painted and decorated its public buildings - but only on the first floor which Erich Honecker could see from his car window - but which further up rotted and decayed; the society in which the state set impossible agricultural targets, which they knew farms could never meet, but then gave out medals to those who fabricated results most extravagantly. 

Funder is a very sensitive writer, who embeds the stories she tells and observations she offers inside some finely crafted sentences. She is able to capture, quite powerfully, the relentless loss of hope which so many experienced at the hands of the Stasi; as well as so many of the absurdities of the East German state system - which makes for compelling reading. Finally she probes at the growing movement of GDR nostalgia from younger people, who feel trapped between the gross disparities of wealth which occur under capitalism, and the gross loss of freedom and abuses of power which seem to be the inevitable outcome of attempts at communism.

I hope one day to visit Berlin. If I manage to do that, Funder's book will immeasurably enhance the experience. I will look for example for the old Stasi headquarters, and note how this most feared building became almost overnight, a museum. I could search for where the shredded Stasi files are being painstakingly stitched back together so that relatives can find out what actually happened to their family members who died in custody. Or hunt for where the people she interviewed tried to climb the wall, and make their way to freedom, where the killing zones, and gun-emplacements were.

This is a tremendous read, very informative, and moving with it too. It is a telling portrait of people whose stories and lives have too often been forgotten. 

A Tale of Two Bridges...

Forth Road Bridge

Not half as inspiring as the Victorian rail bridge, despite its long elegant lines..

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Forth Rail Bridge 5

DVD: Jeff Beck at Ronnie Scott's (2007)

Having seen a few clips of this show on YouTube, I have finally managed to get a copy on DVD in order to hear it in good sound quality. I really enjoyed the bits I had seen c/o the www, but to hear the whole show through a good sound system was... well absolutely stunning.

In 2007 Jeff Beck had assembled a phenomenal band of musicians, Jason Rebello on keys, Tal Wilkenfeld on bass, and Vinnie Colaiuta on drums. As Jeff Beck notes on the accompanying interview on the disc, "these guys are just world class, world class!" He's not exaggerating either, the playing on the tracks taken from Beck's week-long residence at Ronnie Scott's club in London is breathtaking, awe-inspiring and in places so beautiful that it is actually very moving.

Jason Rebello is a fine keys player, while Tal Wilkenfeld's bass work is simply gorgeous. Vinnie Colauita is a stupendous drummer, whose extraordinary playing forms a backbone to all the songs the band present, as they play to his awesome grooves and outrageous fills. Jeff Beck of course, is a master of his craft and leads his band seamlessly through rock, blues, jazz, fusion and reggae with style and mastery of his instrument. The fact that he can call on the likes of Eric Clapton, Joss Stone, Imogen Heap, to join him on stage, while Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, Jon Bon Jovi and Brian May watch him from the stalls, demonstrates the esteemed in which Beck is held by fellow musicians.

I have resisted buying this DVD for ages because of the price (you can see these at £40+!), but spotted one for sale for £7 recently, what a bargain! Here's a clip from the DVD courtesy of YouTube. The band are playing a cover of Stevie Wonder's "Cause we've ended as lovers", and has some lovely brush-work on the drums, some delicate guitar from Mr Beck and bass solo that will make you weep from Tal Wilkenfeld. I think this is just magic.

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Forth Rail Bridge 1

Duchess at Speed

Running up Strathearn a week or so ago (its been a busy fortnight or so - no time for blogging!)

The Duchess of Sutherland

A thunderous departure by The Duchess of Sutherland from Perth. Snorting like an angry bull, accompanied by a volcano of belching smoke, it was quite a sight. And sound. And smell.

Beinn Chabhair

Beinn Chabhair is a Munro which lies on the East side of Glen Falloch, better known to motorists as the A82, north of Loch Lomond. As it is the most westerly of the Crianlarich Hills it has fine views across vast distances, North, West and South. Beinglas Farm seems to be less of a farm than a campsite, bar, restaurant and very busy stop on The West Highland Way. The farm is also a handy place to park in order to gain access to the steep path which ascends South-Eastwards alongside the Bein Glas Burn, and past the delightful Bein Glas Falls. The car park at the campsite might be emblazoned with "patrons only" notices, but hillwalkers are welcome to use it upon payment of £1 at the bar. Having paid and displayed, we found our way around the back of the campsite's wooden 'wigwam' huts, and over a dangerously dilapidated stile and onto the steely rising path. There is no time for the leg-muscles and joints to warm up before climbing, as the stiff ascent begins immediately, and well over 300m are gained in the first km.  In places it's a good track, sometimes it disappears, in places it's rocky, all of it is wet, and much of it very boggy!  

The adjacent burn is the outflow of a delightful Lochan Beinn Chabhair, which sits below its' namesake mountain at around 500m. However, the sopping wet track splits before the lochan, and we took the more Northerly branch which climbed up onto the subsidiary top of Meall nan Tarmachan. From here a very well-worn (dry!) path leads around the ridge to the Munro itself. The summit of the Munro is marked by a very underwhelming little cairn, and as we reached it in thick cloud we double-checked our position and altitude on the GPS to confirm that this was indeed the top. We are right in the middle of Scotland's deer-stalking season at the moment, and so we took the precaution of checking the "hillphones" website before heading out. Many estates who have significant mountain ranges, and who host stalking parties put their information on this site so that walkers can avoid disrupting the estate's trade or indeed risk having a stray bullet interrupt their walking... The Glen Falloch and Glen Fyne hillphone page is found here. 

Somewhat bizarrely, the person this estate has chosen to read out the stalking information is from the North of England, and seemed to struggle with the pronunciation of the Gaelic-derived hill names. This is not a racist point, I am after all an Englishman in the Scottish hills, whose mis-pronunciations have caused amusement to many a Scot over the years. However, if you compare the pronunciations of Beinn Chabhair found on the hillphone answerphone by dialling 01499 600137 with that you can hear courtesy of the walkhighlands website (switch your sound on and click here), you will see why it took me four plays of the hill phone line to work out which hill the lady was talking about! Nevertheless, once the information had been extracted, we stuck to the recommended route and encountered no problems, and no stalking parties. We were also grateful that what the Mountain Weather Information Service had predicted was accurate, the cloud and showers which had dampened our spirits as we made our way along the ridge soon passed.

The gloom did disperse, the showers passed, the sun shone and the visibility was exceptionally clear. Making our way back down the same route (in compliance with the stalking guidelines) we squelched our way back to the car, and a brief visit to the bar at the Beinglas Farm.

Back to Lochnagar

I first climbed Lochnagar back in 1995 on a hot summers' day. On the way up the steep ascent from Clais Rathadan towards the col just beneath the top called Meikle Pap, I fell into conversation with a very old man. He told me he had first climbed up mighty Lochnagar with the Army at the end of WWII, as he had started his National Service. He hadn't been back since, yet the image of the great cliffs on the mountain's wild north corrie had so embedded themselves in his imagination that he had determined to see them again while he was still alive. As he slowly puffed and panted and dragged his reluctant body up the slope to the mountain, I seriously worried that he might have left his quest an hour or two too late... Lochnagar is though, a mountain which draws walkers back time and time again. There are about eighty Munros I have never climbed, which I would like to do. There are some Munro's I have climbed once, and have no intention of ever returning to, as dreary memories of assorted rainy Geal Charn's don't leave me reaching for my boots and longing for the outdoors. Lochnagar is different however. It drew back for a whole day's walking, covering old ground, not gaining a new Munro - but I loved every minute of it! What made it even more special was that I was able to take #2 son up it for the first time; we spent the day walking with a neighbour and his son as well. Two 'forty-somethings' showing Lochnagar to their respective eleven-year-olds.

We took the tried and tested route from the Spittal of Glenshee carpark at the end of the dead-end-road from Ballater. Car Parking charges there are now an eye-watering £3- per visit, our annoyance at which was dampened when we subsequently read the pay-and-display ticket and realised that the money raised wasn't being syphoned off by a greedy council or company, but was being invested in preserving the area. It presumably needs considerable amounts of preservation work as it is exceptionally busy on a weekend, with a full car-park and colourful groups of people lining the main routes and decorating the main summits like ants on proverbial ant-hills.

From the car park we headed towards Loch Muick but turned right before the Lochside and took the track to house at Alt-na-giubhsaich where the track climbs up and through the woods, curving round between the hill named as Conachraig on the OS map, and Lochnagar itself. At various points along the way, the distant cliffs of Lochnagar can be seen, high, black and forebodeing. "Are we going all the way up there...?" a child asks. The footpath away from this landrover track across to Lochnagar is obvious and leads to a distinct col, adjacent to Meikle Pap. This spot provides a fine view of the massive corrie which is Lochnagar's main feature, and provides a wonderful panorama of the route around its' rim to the summit which is the next challenge.

With both youngsters feeling tired and hungry, we sheltered at this point and loaded them with food and drink, and hats, gloves and coats were donned for the upper section of the mountain, as a bitterly cold wind was whipping across the tops. Suitably revived, and with restored blood-sugar levels, they ascended the steep "ladder" section of the walk without difficulty and we made our way towards the summit of Cac Carn Beag, which was blowing in and out of fog.

After another break here we explored the dramatic cliff-tops before looking for the path to take us down to Loch Muick.

The tracks around Lochnagar are incredibly well-engineered and maintained.

They have been completely upgraded since I was here last, and even on the alternative descent route, the track was drained and re-enforced. Anti-erosion measures like these are helpful in preventing thousands of boots scaring the landscape. What usually happens is that a well-trodden path wears a groove into the land, this then becomes a stream bed, which gets deeper with every rainfall event. Subsequent walkers then start walking alongside it, and the pattern is repeated, with the increasingly boggy track getting wider and wider with every year. These engineered paths prevent that process from occurring, but at some cost. I don't just mean the £3- cost of parking either, but also the merciless pounding that descending down these solid rock paths causes the feet and knees. 

The track passes the delightful waterfall called The Falls of the Glassalt,

before descending down to Glas-alt-shiel, a mountain Lodge, built by Queen Victoria and still favoured by Royals today.

From the Lodge, a private roads leads all the way back alongside the Loch to the Car-park and the end of a very fine day's walking. It was wonderful to re-visit Lochnagar, (Loch Muick is worth visiting on its own!), and the two 11 year old were exhausted but rightly proud of their achievement. For my son, this almost 13m mile walk with 1080+metres of ascent was the hardest walk he has done. I'm delighted to report that he has already started to talk about which Munro he be able to climb 'next'!

Rectinilear

Four reasons you should move to Perth

 All natural colours, no filters, no spiced up saturation!

Aonach Baeg and Aonach Mor: Memories and Midgies

Glen Nevis is indisputably one of Scotland's finest. The road along the valley floor, twistz and turns alomgside the fast-flowing River Nevis, as it carves its way between The Nevis Range and The Mamore mountains. The road has been improved over the years, and for much of its length is now a wide, smooth, black tarmac ribbon; where a narrow, orange surfaced strip, once crumbled its single-track way through the hills. The start of the road is busy, with West Highland way-ers meeting the throngs heading for the Ben Nevis tourist path, but every mile down Glen Nevis gets lonelier and the rush of River Nevis louder. Beyond the lower falls, the road narrows and then abruptly terminates at a car park, from which a non-motorable track continues up the Glen and through the Nevis Gorge.

Midgies and Memories. The car park at the end of Glen Nevis is packed full of both these. The first time I came here was with two friends both of whom have long since emigrated. One is in Australasia, the other in the Far East - long lost friends with whom great hill-days were once shared. That day we braved the midgies and walked the classic Ring of Steall route in the centre of the Mamores. On this latest visit I got out of the car and was immediately assaulted by a barrage of the accursed insects; landing black and thick on my arms, they stung my neck, my face, and even ventured into my ears. Knowing that even a few yards beyond the car park my torment would cease I hurled my pack on my back, jumped into my boots and took to the path.

On one infamous trip down this Glen, one of my walking companions had serious medical difficulties. Trudging up the long South-western ridge of Sgurr Choinnich Beag, this chap then in his 60s, experienced significant central chest pain. He didn't tell us why he was walking so slowly and unusually struggling with the climb until we were having dinner at the Bridge of Orchy Hotel over six hours later. We had somewhat cruelly accused him of being hung-over and unfit for the mountains. Thankfully, he survived the risk of completing the walk, but was admitted for heart surgery soon afterwards. Tragically, several years later he died of a quite separate illness.... Midgies and memories.

There is a magical moment on the Glen Nevis path when it climbs up through the dark and narrow confines of the Nevis Gorge, and suddenly breaks out into a broad  meadow, ringed by dramatic peaks and crowned with a stunning waterfall in the centre of the view. The waterfall is notoriously hard to photograph lurking in shadow most of the time, as it bursts out of its hanging-valley high above the Glen-floor. The glacial-meltwater has long gone, but the today's rains continue to run in this fluvio-glacial channels, continuing the erosive work handed down to them. As with water, so with the human mind, where thoughts and memories follow the familiar patterns of our past. And what is past here is the memory of walking this path with the friend who has now passed on. His ludicrous observations and anecdotes and seemingly endless
numbers of euphemism for farting passed the miles and the hours.

All this leads to the piles of stones known as The Steall Ruin. Its hard to imagine that many a lonely Scottish Glen was once home to thriving communities of small farmers and estate workers. Many of these fled for opportunities in cities, while many more were driven from the land in the clearances when the economic value of sheep was considered to be greater priority than the moral value of people. As I approached the Steall ruin I wondered what had happened here and I was struck by the image of a foppish 18thCentury George Osbourne driving people from the land while crying, "We're all in this together!"

Because abandoned buildings have no present, they brood over their past in a way that occupied ones do not. These stones were once the homes of people who lived, worked, loved, sang and wept in these places. No doubt these stones have witnessed the passions of newlyweds, the birth of children, ten-thousand family meals, the lighting and clearing of fireplaces, pain, suffering and death. Who once saw lights burning in the windows of these cottages and fought their way down from the bleak mountain to find shelter here from snow and storm?

The mournful stones at Steall were the turning point in my day, as here footpath tourism ended, and more hillwalking began. I struck North-Westwards, following a scratchy track towards Sgurr a Bhuic, veering just inside it's final section and making for the main ridge at Coire a Bhuic and followed it over Stob Coire Bhealaich onto the broad summit of Aonach Baeg. The flat top of this mountain is surrounded by steep sides, meaning that the lack of a pinnacle or peak is compensated for by dramatic cliffs especially on the eastern side. Navigation up until this point was straightforward, I think I only needed the compass once to get to the summit, despite the thick cloud lurking around the top few hundred feet. Navigating between Aonach Beag and Aonach Mor in cloud was much, much more tricky, but measuring my steps and checking my compass work enabled me to find the little ridge that joins the two. This connection is extremely well hidden and the surrounding slopes give little clue as to its location, and there is little margin for error with steep slopes falling way on either side of it. I was almost upon the ridge when a brief break in the cloud revealed it just below me, and its simple Northwards trek up to the large cairn atop Aonach Mor. Most visitors to this mountain reach it by cable car, and enjoy the high-level restaurant, and are there to ski, or snow board, riding up and down the northern corries on ski-tows. The summit, is in contrast a bleak and lonely place. Despite the fact that down in Glen Nevis it was warm and sunny and holiday-makers were making there way in large numbers to play in the river and swing on the rope bridge, the top of The Aonach's was cold, cloudy, and desolate.

It was in looking for the descent path into Coire Guibsachan that I made my only navigational error of the day. I should have turned westward and descended to the col between Aonach Mor and Carn Mor Dearg from the part of the ridge named as Seang Aonach Mor on the OS 1:25,000 map. Thinking I saw a path dropping from the bealach between the two Aonach's I descended to it before turning East. This soon led into an impossibly steep descent, and resulted in a tricky traverse across very steep, and slippery ground to reach the correct descent path. The path from here back to the Steal Ruin is a intermittent and boggy, but despite the unpleasant nature of what was beneath me, what was above me was looking increasingly beautiful. The afternoon sunshine burnt away the cloud which had lingered past lunchtime, and bathed the hills in soft light, high temperatures and high humidity.


My body ached, my knees hurt, but the hills shone. The walk back down Gen Nevis was magical. If I live until I am 80, I have no doubt that I will look back on day such as this with unalloyed pleasure and gratitude. Tonight as I go to sleep, I shall imagine myself once more striding across the roof of Scotland, soaking in God's good earth. Precious Days.

Book Notes: Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes by Kenneth Bailey

Kenneth Bailey's "Jesus Through Middle-Eastern Eyes: Cultural Studies in the Gospels" is the most stimulating and helpful Biblical Studies book I have read for quite some time. After an introduction which lays out his framework and introduces the reader to his main lines of argument and hermeneutical tools, the book consists of 32 essays on aspects of the life and teaching of Jesus Christ as depicted in the synoptic gospels. When I was given this book I assumed that the "Middle Eastern Eyes" in question belonged to Kenneth Bailey himself, and presented his insights from a lifetime living in the Middle East to help western readers more accurately grasp the message of the gospels. This is certainly the case, and in many occasions his cultural insights add huge depth to his interpretations of incidents and parables which simply would not occur to the western reader. In several cases these insights are extraordinarily helpful in 'un-knotting' the theological problems in texts usually viewed as problematic; when the the real problem is an assumption which we have brought to the text which would have been entirely alien to Jesus' first hearers or the gospel writers. However the "Middle Eastern Eyes" with which Bailey addresses his subject are not restricted to his own  two; but include his lifetime's research into Middle Eastern languages (Aramaic, Syriac, Arabic etc ), and the deep wells of two millennia of Bible study, reflection and commentary in those tongues which are inaccessible to the ordinary reader. These provide a wealth of useful and sometimes startling quotations with which to furnish his argument, or add illustrations as to how the cultural phenomena he describes function in ordinary life in the Middle East. 

There are over four hundred pages in Bailey's book, but one example will provide an illustration of the added depth these cultural studies provide to our reading. I have read the 'parable of the rich fool' in Luke 12 many times. I had never before noticed the phrase 'he thought to himself' which Bailey says is literally rendered 'he discussed with himself'. Bailey demonstrates that in Middle Eastern culture important financial decisions and forward-planning is never conducted alone, but always with family, friends and respected others. This self-discussion seems unremarkable to the western reader reared on a diet of extreme individualism; but the rich man in the parable is to be pictured as having been alienated from everyone around him by his love of money. Not only will he be cut off from God by his idolatry; but we are also meant to picture him in an unnatural isolation, building a wall to protect his cash, which becomes a wall of separation cutting him off from real life. Accessing the cultural context transforms a throwaway phrase into a vivid picture of the alienation which unchecked sin causes.

Another major feature of the book is Bailey's structural analysis of the various pericopes from which the gospels were constructed. He demonstrates with diagrams, the way in which the segments of the gospels (especially the sayings of Christ, from Beatitudes to Parables) are not merely homespun peasant tales with obvious meanings; but are finely crafted poetic units built in the old Hebrew tradition of cycles of paired sayings. He points out that in many of these units the Greek (and Western logical tradition) emphasises the final clause of a literary unit as the conclusion to which all other material leads up. However to read Jesus' parables in this way is to place the central meaning in different place than was originally ever intended. So for instance, the 'bookends' of a unit which start and end it might be significant, but the very central stanza might be the main point, but comes wrapped in symmetrical clauses.

Bailey's handling of the birth of Christ narratives in fascinating and illuminating, his explorations of The Beatitudes and 'Lord's Prayer' are very helpful, as are his essays on the miracles of Jesus and Jesus' treatment of women. It was the final section on the parables which I think I found the most surprising and illuminating though. One of the enduring benefits of this book for me will be Bailey's repeated demonstration of the fact that the oft-perceived theological gap between Jesus and Paul, is less problematic than the Western reader is sometimes tempted to think. In Bailey's contextural cultural analysis of the words of Christ, an enormously strong doctrine of grace emerges which coheres with the work which the Apostle Paul would subsequently produce for gentile believers.

Bailey has the ability to express a huge weight of scholarship in quite plain language, not expecting the reader to share his access to technical theological language, let alone be multi-lingual in tongues both living and dead! Not only does he do the reader the service of writing profoundly and deeply, but he also provides bullet-pointed summaries at the end of the chapter to enable easy recollection of the main points made.

This is tremendous reading, and a book to which I know I will return again and again when I read, or discuss or preach on these gospel texts. 

Film Notes: Lincoln

Last night we finally managed to see Steven Spielberg's film Lincoln, and well worth watching it is too. It is an unusual biopic in that it does not seek to present a biography of the man, his background, rise to power, personal development and greatest achievements; nor does it indulge in the usual search for the psychological keys in early life that led him to 'become the man he became'. Rather, this film presents a detailed study of President Abraham Lincoln over the four months in 1865 during which he fought to get The Thirteenth Amendment to the US Constitution passed by the House of Representatives. This legislation states that: Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction. In 1865 this legislation was urgently necessary as The Union Army was pressing on Virginia and looked as if they would soon militarily defeat the beleaguered Confederacy. Earlier in the war, Lincoln had issued an executive Emancipation Order. The film explains that the legality of this proclamation was predicated upon the Commander-in-Chief's authorisation to seize enemy property during a conflict. While this had mobilised countless African Americans to fight for the Northern Armies, and weakened Southern morale; it had tacitly endorsed the notion that The Federal Government properly viewed slaves as property. This required full-bloodied legislation to combat, and to settle the issue of abolition finally and completely. Furthermore, Lincoln needed legislation quickly in 1865 before the cessation of hostilities. If the Southern States were re-admitted to The Union before the amendment was ratified, they could refuse to ratify and thus nullify it. As the film makes clear, some Confederates would have accepted immediate peace terms which enabled them to maintain their (very) "peculiar institution" - an offer with which many in the war-weary North who were ideologically committed Unionists, but not abolitionists, would have happily complied. The film dramatically traces Lincoln's determined quest to achieve the Thirteenth Amendment, and the political machinations which ensued, as he sought to gain the required numbers in the house. The scenes in which the passing of the Amendment is carried into law, is a brilliant and highly moving piece of cinema; and is powerful not because of histrionic acting, or a billion-dollar CGI-effects budget; but because the story is real, well-told, and matters. The viewer is made to feel the importance and significance of that scene, and the drama of the wavering Representatives casting their votes, is brilliant.

Lincoln is a film which has gained most of its headlines because of Daniel Day Lewis' extraordinary performance as President Lincoln. While there is no doubt that Lincoln is hated by many Americans for a range of reasons, there is also no doubt that he is the hero of Spielberg's movie. Thankfully, Spielberg and Lewis didn't try and re-make Lincoln into a 21st Century hero, or airbrushed politician. Contemporaries spoke of Lincoln's weathered face, sometimes lacklustre oratory, and shuffling gait. His towering influence on the 19thCentury was not encased within the media-packaging with which we are accustomed to viewing our leaders. Daniel Day Lewis' portrayal is so good that he almost seems to have stepped out of that iconic Alexander Gardner photograph of Lincoln that has an enduring place in the public imagination. There are some other cracking performances that carry the film too. David Strathairn, is excellent as Secretary of State William Seward. He is always a compelling member of a cast and is convincing whether he is chasing Meryl Streep over waterfalls, chasing Jason Bourne around the world, or fighting McCarthyism in Good Night and Good Luck; but he is on especially good form here. Sally Field delivers an emotionally charged, yet more sympathetic reading of Mary Todd Lincoln than many people will have expected; and is great as the vulnerable, complex and compelling first Lady. Tommy Lee Jones has played plenty of daft roles in his career, but his portrayal as the radical abolitionist representative Thaddeus Stevens rightly garnered him a host of award nominations. James Spader, as W.N. Bilbo offers a little light relief from the intensity the film generates; a wonderful intensity which Hal Holbrook seems to be able to sustain with few lines to actually speak; as he plays Conservative Republican leader Preston Blair. Spielberg was brave, but right, to construct this film as he did, and resist the temptation to produce a conventional biography. I did wonder though if the film might more accurately have been billed as "Amendment" rather than as "Lincoln"!

This film is important not simply because of its cinematographical qualities. The story of Lincoln and the Thirteenth Amendment is a wonderful case-study in the most important dilemma in western political thought; which resonates powerfully with contemporary debates such as US President Obama's tentative moves towards universal healthcare provision. That debate is about the nature and meaning of "freedom" and whose job it is to secure that for people. The Lincoln film contains a key scene in which The President conducts secret peace negotiations with Confederate Vice-President Alexander Stephens. The script-writer imagines them framing their negotiating stances in the moral categories of freedom. Lincoln is determined that the government will intervene to ensure that slaves have freedom from indentured servitude, while Stephens wants individual states to be granted freedom from Federal interference in their affairs. In a recent debate about abortion provision, it was noted that pro-choice protesters' banners proclaimed women's freedom from government to control their own bodies, while pro-lifers demanded government intervention to protect the freedom of foetus's from the threat of death. Likewise, anti-Obama-care right-wingers proclaim their freedom to not be taxed for the benefit of others, while the left demands that poor-children are given freedom from preventable illness. "Lincoln" is an important film because it asks us to think about what Freedom means and whose job it is to enforce it. 

The Falls of Rogie

On Stac Pollaidh

Stac Pollaidh ('Stak Polly') is not a large mountain, but it is one of Scotland's most iconic peaks and its unusual name is apparently derived from Norse and means "Peak of the Pool River." The Assynt skyline is extraordinary, with its wide views punctuated by a series of weirdly shaped rocky crests which appear to owe more to Tolkein's imagination than to the rest of Scotland's geological history. The mysterious names of these mountains, Suilven, Quinag, Stac Pollaidh, Canisp, Cùl Mòr and Cùl Beag, only serve to accentuate this 'other-wordly' or indeed 'Middle-Earthly' feel. To walk or cycle through Assynt is to step into a Rodney Matthews album cover from an especially hairy Prog-rock band. It is a landscape which has inspired countless walkers,

climbers, artists, photographers, writers and poets. 

Some of Scotland's mountains are big, brutal and bulky. To walk over (or indeed around) a mountain like Bheinn a Ghlo, which I can see from my study window, is to encounter ones own smallness in the face of overwhelming 'bigness'. It is the scale of a mountain like that, with its miles of ridges sprawling out across the landscape, that initially impresses the imagination and then sears the memory. Stac Pollaidh of Assynt, in comparison, is more of a whimsical and charming thing, which doesn't challenge the walker with a knee-bludgeoning ten-mile hike or four-thousand foot sea-to-summit ascent; but rather halts us with its quixotic pinnacles, and contorted rocky structures. A new path leads up on to the mountain's central ridge, a hard rocky track laid to reduce the erosion caused by the thousands and thousands of boots whose owners have be drawn to this remote corner of The Highlands by this dreamy and

romantic scenery. It climbs up from the little car-park then swings around to the North side of the central East-West ridge, before offering access to countless scrambly routes  up and down the rocky spires which decorate it. Ten of us climbed the track one cloudy July morning, the view of Ben na Eoin behind Loch Lurgainn, joining then leaving us, in between bands of soft mizzle. These lightest of all raindrops seemed to be falling impossibly slowly, in no hurry to reach the ground. Once near The White Bridge west of The Linn of Dee in the Cairngorms I was assaulted by a rain which attacked the soil with unusual ferocity; it was an angry rain. The droplets in the Assynt air on the other hand were content to take their time, to linger in the air as if suggesting that in a landscape such as this the journey itself is at least as important as the destination. Our party included some very young children. Their tiny stride-length and ability to be as delighted with hairy caterpillars on the track as much as with the improbable vista slowed us down, and forced us to walk at a speed more in keeping with the place. Our group consisted of two-families, one used to hill-walking, and the other used to rock-climbing - the traditional classification of hill-folk as being either 'ramblers or danglers' dividing us perfectly in two. My family, on the rambler side of the divide were at the head of the path before our friends, who then took over and led us up over the rocks and the scree and upwards into the sky on natural ladders, up chimneys and over slippery sandstone spines. Their children are impressively agile on rock, and ascended the various faces with spiderman like agility, stretching their little limbs as far as they would go for distant handholds with which to pull their tiny lightweight bodies up onto the next ledge. Our approach to such matters is (we like to think) a lot more leisurely, although objective observers might substitute the adjective 'lardy'! Nevertheless, we

climbed the side of the ridge, up over the top, along some pinnacles, and back down the other side, before finding the path but descending back around the western side of the mountain, completing a circuit. Prior to the final descent a couple of us climbed back onto the ridge and made for the summit. It was here that ramblers and danglers were separated again, this time by the notorious bad-step. I reckoned that in my stiff soled, but slippery walking boots I could get up it and make the summit, but didn't fancy my chances of descending safely and so watched while 'Percy' slowly negotiated his way there and back again. 

I am always a bit too protective of my good camera to take it into the hills with me. If I had habitually walked with it, it could have ended up following me over a waterfall in Glen Etive, or submerged in a river by Ben Alder. As such all the photos of Stac Pollaidh, except the first one at the head of this post, were taken with a tiny (awful) compact or on an iPhone. The pictures are hardly satisfactory, yet they still just enough to invoke not just good memories and nostalgia for holidays past; but to invoke something of the allure, and magnetic attraction of Assynt. I'm home now, and normal routines are uneasily being re-adopted and practised until they regain their sense of normality. Sitting here, I am closer to the new town of Glenrothes, than to the ancient Torridonian Sandstone of Stac Pollaidh. However, with my photos, the help of small dram, and maybe a stanza or two of Norman MacCaig, my imagination becomes a CS Lewis wardrobe through which I travel to be in Assynt again.