Glen Feshie

It's many years since I have been down Glen Feshie, and I have few memories of it, other than thinking it was worth a re-visit. It wasn't just last week's Cairngorm epic, through the Lairig Ghru, which brought these glens back to my attention either. Scotland's weather conformed today to the traditional pattern, with the West taking the brunt of the rain, and the Eastern mountains hiding in their shadow. I have a friend who works in the hydro-electric industry, and when we talk about Scotland's Highlands, his vast knowledge of the West Coast stands in marked contrast to his relative unfamiliarity with the East. Rain is the resource he farms, and only goes where that is found in abundance. The opposite is the case when planning a short walk, especially with my wife and daughter in attendance.

My memories of Glen Feshie, (which must be fifteen years old, at least), are of a blazing hot summer's day; of the track by the river, and the two Munros, Mulach Clach a Bhlair (steep sided, broad summit, heathery), and Sgor Gaoith (magnificent views towards Braeriach towering over Loch Einich). These old memories are hazy at best, and so a re-visit was in order.

Unlike last week's route march, this afternoon's trek was a pleasant dander forFeshie proved to be an absolute delight however. The wide glen floor, once carved by ice; now has a wonderful river gliding down it, carving its way through the moraines. It is home to a dazzling array of wild flowers, and native natural woodland, which in turn is teeming with life. While the unnaturally tree-less glens are silent and empty; Feshie was alive with scurrying, buzzing, scuttling, with tiny birds on the ground, and birds of prey circling above. In a couple of places, it looked rather like a walk we did last year in the Canadian Rockies (smaller though!), and we recalled the bears we had seen there!

a few miles along the floor of the glen. Glen

Not a Munro, not an epic trek; just a great short walk - and my appetite for the outdoors, fed for another week or so.

The Lairig Ghru

The Lairig Ghru is a name which reaches back into my young childhood. Around the same time as my Dad read Tolkein to me, he also told me about the hillwalking trip he took through the Cairngorms when he was fifteen; back in the mid 1950s. Somehow the two things seemed to merge into my young mind, which filed all these mental images under the headings 'mythical' and 'wonderful'. Braeriach, The Forest of Rothiemurchus, Corrour Bothy, Derry Lodge or The Pools of Dee sounded as evocative and far away as Rivendell, The Lonely Mountain, The Shire or The Running River. These are names to enjoy pronouncing, conjuring up images of hobbits on quests or 1950s schoolboys on life-shaping adventures. Rather wonderfully however, The Cairngorms turn out to be real, and accessible.

The Lairig Ghru is described by mountain writer Cameron McNeish as "one of Scotland's truly great walks", and one I have wanted to do for decades. A 'Lairig' is a pass through the mountains, and this one, the Lairig Ghru, allows the walker to cut through the heart of the great Cairngorm range, the old Monadh Ruadh; from Deeside, near Braemar to Speyside near Aviemore. This great heart of eastern Scotland is unpenetrated by roads; even the estate tracks and engineered paths of the beginning and end of the route peter out in the high pass, and boots meet mountains directly without human intercession. It is not entirely natural land (left to its own devices it would be far more forested); but it is undeniably wild land. The mountain rescue service is kept busy here, and sadly not all their expeditions reach happy conclusions; these are not hills in which to get lost, cold, or injured alone. Yesterday, we faced a forecast which was wet and cold, but at the end of an unusually hot summer there was no chance of meeting any lingering snow - which seems to have caused the most problems over the years, lying deep in the Lairig until remarkably late in the year.

The great defile of the Lairig Ghru is visible from Aviemore, a great gash in the bulky skyline above the woods. Sadly, Aviemore is now visible from the Laiig Ghru, a particularly ugly concrete hotel dominates,  whose architect should win some sort of incongruity lifetime achievement award. The southern end of the Lairig Ghru isn't visible from any public road, because there aren't any there; the view up the pass from that end has to be earned by walking or cycling from Linn of Dee either via Derry Lodge and Glen Luibeg or via the White Bridge. I seem to have seen this great walk from all angles over the years, yet never been able to complete the walk, usually for logistical reasons - it's a two car effort, with a long drive in at the end of the day. I've seen it from Braeriach, from Monadh Mhor and walked down into it from the Chalamain Gap; but yesterday (at last!), I had the opportunity to do the complete Linn of Dee to Rothiemurchus route.

One of my neighbours, organised a group, and left a car at Rothiemurchus at the end of her family holiday in Aviemore. Four of us drove through Glen Shee, to Braemar and left my car at the big carpark at Linn of Dee (£3 a day, Pay and Display now!). From here the engineered Glen Luibeg path is well signposted, and snakes its way through the woods, meeting a bulldozed track all the way to Derry Lodge. Derry Lodge, all shuttered and forlorn, was once apparently a busy shooting lodge, full of Victorian and Edwardian hunting parties; busy with the sounds of dogs, the smells of feasts and whisky and adventure. Walking with friends old and new, we mused about what a melancholy sight it now is, and what a wonderful mountain bunkhouse it would make if someone had the time, money, inclination and could get permission. 

The footbridge at Derry Lodge has a signpost pointing westwards to the Lairig Ghru at the far end of it. I remember getting caught in bogs at the next section a couple of times, but it was  hard underfoot yesterday - despite the persistently falling rain. It needs to keep raining for a while yet, to replenish the deficit of a bone-dry summer. We had no need, in fact, to search for the 'hidden' bridge at Luibeg - the water was so low, we walked straight across at the ford.

(Looking into the Larig Ghru from a previous trip to Monadh Mhor)

It's here, beyond the Luibeg Burn, that the walk changes in character - and the excitement begins. As the path winds gently uphill underneath the Munro Carn a Mhaim, The Devil's Peal looms into view. Yesterday, it was magnificent, great slabs of wet, grey rock thrusting skywards into the clouds. Perhaps an appropriate metaphor for such a sight is Tolkeinesque. Either way, it is as the gentle and broad landscape of Glenn Lui is left behind that the Middle Earth of my childhood imagination is entered. Despite the rain, and the plummeting temperatures - it was really magnificent; I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather have been.

The little bothy at Corrour is a well-known landmark; nestling in the Larig Ghru beneath the Devil's Point and the Angel's Peak. My Dad camped here all those years ago; I can only imagine what a tent made of heavy-duty canvas must have weighed! My kids have camped here on DofE expeditions too. I have previously passed this spot, in the way to and from the adjacent Munros. The usual loose association of good natured hill-folk were hiding in the bothy yesrerday lunchtime, travellers from Scotland, Wales and England - some staying the night, others just sheltering from the rain. We had a brew-up, a chat with the folks there, and layered up, before heading back out into the rain, and biting wind. The path is clear, and follows the east side of the glen floor, past a stone named as the Clach nan Taillear. A stone with a name, might indicate a memorial to some ancient tragedy - the hills and weather certainly looked foreboding as we climbed into the heart of the mountains. If we had felt large and confident, striding through the woods to Derry Lodge, we now looked like little hobbits beneath the huge peaks of Cairntoul and Ben Mandui looming either side.

The path runs into a boulder field by the Pools of Dee at the head of the Lairig. There are no problems here, other than a far slower rate of progress than is possible either side; and the path braids and re-joins repeatedly. Nevertheless it's a quick descent down to the trough where the Braeriach path drops in from the left and the Chalamain Gap path climbs out to the right. The time I walked through the Gap, on my own, very early one morning, the moon was huge - and eerily framed in the Gap itself.

The path descends rapidly into the wonderful Rothiemurchus forest. This living remnant of the Great Caledonian Forest is soft; teeming with life and aromatic. The midgies were in their element here too; and soon our party reeked with the ghastly odour of Skin-So-Soft; allegedly the best defence against the little pests. Smelling like a bunch of Grannies at a perfume convention, and surrounded by a cloud of swirling black dots we picked out way through the woods, to the landmark of the Cairngorm Club Footbridge and on towards the waiting car at the road by the campsite. The engineered paths here are well made and as a result bog-free. They are also rock-hard, and several miles of pounding them made my feet ache. My lovely old walking boots are in their last days of useful life, the uppers are wearing and the soles are desperately thin. They no longer grip much, or provide much cushioning from the relentless thumping, and will soon be put out of their misery. As a result, by the time we completed our 20miles, (47,000 steps according to a Fitbit wearer), I was glad to see the car and lift my feet from the boots.

The day was completed with dropping one walker to the station at Aviemore, while the rest of us drove via Tomintoul and the Lecht, to collect my car at Linn of Dee for the return drive to Perth. Sadly, the chippy in Braemar was closing so there was no fish, or pies, or haggis to be had; happily the owner was glad to hand us three portions of chips, completely free. It was past closing time, and they would be thrown out otherwise!

The Lairig Ghru is a classic Scottish Walk. I'm glad to have finally followed in my Dad's footsteps (and er.... those of Bilbo obviously); and walked all the way through. I love these mountains, and get there so rarely. The day was made complete by safe travels and great company. 

Book Notes: The Crucified Jew: Twenty Centuries of Christian Anti-Semitism by Dan Cohn-Sherbok

As readers of this blog will be aware, over the years, I have read about and reflected often on the Shoah, the Holocaust of the European Jews in the 1940s. You can read some of these posts here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. Until now, however, I have never read anything which really tries to examine the Holocaust as part of the long history of Anti-Semitism in general, and the role of Christianity within that. The Crucified Jew: Twenty Centuries of Christian Anti-Semitism by Dan Cohn-Sherbok is exactly that. As a book reviewer who is part of the Christian faith, my response to such a work is simply this: read it and weep.

The first half of the book is divided by eras, with a mass of information on Anti-Semitism gathered under heading such as "The Greco-Roman World", or "The Church Fathers" or "Medieval Anti-Semitism". As the latter half of the book moves into the modern era, and so presumably sources become more abundant, the material is subdivided by nations, and specific historical incidents, such as Nazism, and post-Nazi Europe. While there are some criticisms to be made around the margins of the book; the main theme and thrust of what Cohn-Sherbok amasses here is as undeniable as it is disturbing. The litany of libels, pogroms, expulsions, murders, demonisations, and all manner of hate-crimes recorded here, is shocking. What is appalling, and disgusting, is how many of these were committed in the name of the Christian religion - at times with the collaboration of church leaders. While many people will be familiar with the accusation that the papacy was morally tarnished by its dealings with the Third Reich; what is perhaps less known is how far this was a part of a trend which reared its ugly head at regular, sorry intervals throughout history. This is truly grim reading.

The quibbles I had with a few aspects of the book, should not be, in any way whatsoever, seen to be detracting from the importance of the central thesis it contains: that Jewish people have been systematically mistreated  in the name of Christianity from Britain to Russia via most most points between them. They are however worth noting in passing, inasmuch as this is a book review, not a historical essay. The first is that there is a dreadful lack of referencing in the book. Even whole inset paragraphs, attributed to an array of writers, are not referenced! In terms of historical writing this is poor, not just in terms of fact-checking, but also further reading.

The element I struggled most with however, was Cohn-Sherbok's repeated assertion that the New Testament documents are intrinsically Anti-Semitic, because of the theological premise that God's salvation is found uniquely in Christ, and that He is the fulfilment of scripture; the implication being that to reject Christ is to reject YWHW. Furthermore, Christ's battles with the religious authorities of his day, referred to as 'The Jews', whose false legalistic righteousness is contrasted poorly with those who repent and follow Christ - is interpreted as a pro-Gentile anti-Jewish text, which prepares the way for prejudice and violence. There are numerous problems with this. The first is that the context of these documents is a largely Jewish early church wrestling with these questions amongst themselves; whilst being persecuted by the Jewish authorities of their day. They were no more anti-Semitic than Jeremiah or Amos were as they warned Israel and Judah about their apostasy back in the Hebrew Bible in centuries "BC". Likewise the righteous who appear in the gospels in contrast to the religious leaders were categorically not gentiles, but the poor from amongst Israel. That such texts were misappropriated by Anti-Semites for thousands of years, is not in any doubt; what I am not convinced by is the suggestion that these texts in any way justify any form of Anti-Semitism. Whilst someone reading these words in the context of The Spanish Inquisition might have read them that way, is possible; but what I can say is that being brought up on these texts in the post-Holocaust era; I never found even the slightest inference of prejudice in them. In fact, in the conservative church in which I grew up, the age-old slander that the Jews were "Christ-killers", was never even allured to. Rather, at communion services, we were constantly told to reflect on our own unspeakable sinfulness; for which Christ offered his own life on the cross.

We must be able to debate and discuss ideas, with rigour; without hating, or despising, or persecuting people. That distinction is under increasing threat in today's world. In a couple of places, Cohn-Sherbok seemed to come close to implying that to critique Jewish theology was essentially racist. The charge that 19thC Higher Criticism, and the application of techniques such as form and redaction criticism, were Anti-Semitic, because they undermined trust in the Hebrew Bible, I found very odd indeed. For a start such methods were applied to the New Testament as well, casting doubts (for instance) into the Pauline authorship of Ephesians; so singling out literary critical methods as prejudice-inducing, is misplaced. Another problem, is that while Cohn-Sherbok amasses a case against Christianity, he muddies the waters by including the writings and actions of many westerners who are far from Christian; Voltaire, Wagner, Marx, Hitler and Hegel for a start. This does not negate, his argument but confuses it a bit. Finally, there is inadequate discussion of the nature of church-state-identity relations in the 'Christendom' era; which explains why Judaism was seen as intolerable. Historians of these era, have shown that religious compliance was a matter of loyalty and identity more than belief and conviction; and that all dissenters (such as the Anabaptists) were brutally suppressed along with the Jews. Now, this does not, justify the evil actions of the perpetrators, any more than it mitigates the suffering of the victims. It does suggest however that the historical processes were more nuanced than Cohn-Sherbok's 'Christians have always hated Jews' thesis allows.

But please note; these quibbles do not detract from the central thrust of the book; that Jewish people have suffered appallingly, across the centuries, and across cultures; suffering many persecutions at the hands of those who claimed to be Christian. The main sections of this book are as disturbing, as they are essential reading.

The conclusion of the book, after an especially harrowing account of the Holocaust (but a weak attempt to implicate Christianity in it); is a really interesting essay. In 'towards reconciliation', Cohn-Sherbok writes about shifts in Christian thought which have reduced tensions between the two-faiths; despite such a long history of misunderstanding, prejudice, and bloodshed between them. Helpfully these include (i) official denunciations of Anti-Semitism from church bodies and Synods, (ii) a theological rediscovery of the Jewishness of Jesus of Nazareth - a very rich area of research and now common currency in the church, and (iii) alternatives to strict 'replacement theology' being proposed, not least by Messianic Jews today and (iv) Christian theological responses to the Shoah, such as Jurgen Moltmann's Crucified God, which while distinctly Christian in nature and Trinitarian in structure, suggests profound ways of engaging with the presence of God in a world marked by unrestrained and demonic evil such as the death camps. Perhaps less helpful, were the suggestions that Christians should dilute their theology into a Jon Hick style plurality, or Liberal Anglican disdain for proclaiming Christ to the whole world. Obviously the threats or bribery which sought external compliance with Christendom, are as unacceptable as they are redundant; but the UN Declaration on Human Rights (Article 18 - Freedom of Religion), was written in response to the terrors of the 30's and 40s, and applies to all. Increasingly, of course, the context of the Christian witness to Jewish people is that of Messianic Jews, who join the debate about whether or not Jesus of Nazareth was the Jewish Messiah, from within the Jewish people - and that looks a lot more like the New Testament anyway.

As I write, the Labour Party in the UK is involved in a bitter internal dispute about Anti-Semitism. The suggestion that the radical left's unquestioning commitment to the Palestinian cause, and the large Muslim vote in the English cities, is fuelling such a problem is made almost daily in the press. Six years ago I went to the Memorial for the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin. Deeply moved, walking above the stelae above ground, we then went below to see the records where the names of every known Jew who perished at Treblinka, Sobibor, Birkenau, Ravensbruck, Auschwitz and the rest, are kept. Even then, I shuddered at the enormity of it. After reading The Crucified Jew, I suspect that the feeling would be greatly amplified; standing as I do, in a faith which has been so deeply implicated in their suffering over the centuries. Now, I am not personally responsible for the pogroms, any more than the Jews of 13th Century England caused the death of Christ. Nevertheless, we are branches on trees with very deep roots; defined by and both united and divided by our respective histories. The weight that presses down on us is therefore not so much personal guilt, more the sense of responsibility to prevent such things ever happening again to anyone of any creed. It was possibly the greatest of the all the writers to have escaped from the camps, Primo Levi who wrote; "It happened, therefore it could happen again; this is the heart of what we are saying." Indeed it could.

This is disturbing reading. Sometimes though, I think we need to be disturbed.

Interview with Jonathan Veira

Whether performing opera, gospel, or comedy, Jonathan Veira is known as a larger-than-life character, with a powerful voice and big laugh. When I spoke to Jonathan, I found him in a thoughtful mood, reflecting insightfully on fame, art, work, and the faith that inspires him.

How did you get into opera? I’m guessing it wasn’t the suggestion of a careers teacher?!

JV: My careers advice at school was rubbish! But I had a music teacher who was brilliant at encouraging me. I was terribly bullied, but he took me under his wing and gave me the key to practice rooms, where I started to do music all the way up through ‘A’-level. Whenever I did things on stage he said “Jonathan has ‘it’!” So he pushed me and pushed me and encouraged me to go on to further study.

At university they said to me, “you aren’t very good at the viola, why don’t you have singing lessons?!” In my first singing lesson I thought the professor would want me to sing like a classical singer, so I did my impression of one. Now I’ve ended up singing for the last 34 years professionally… doing an impression of an opera singer; I just hope nobody finds out! 

Then I studied music as a postgraduate, won some national singing competitions, which got me noticed by the famous Glyndebourne Opera Company who asked me to audition, and gave me a job!

What was your first lead role?

JV: Well, you start with a lot of comprimario roles, an aria here or there; but my first ‘lead’ was when I did The Magic Flute. When I was 30 I did Falstaff.

That’s quite young for Falstaff!

JV: Yes, it was very young, and it was frightening actually. But I was starting to learn what I was doing. Recently “Stage Magazine” said, “Jonathan Veira is the best in the UK at doing these roles”, so now, at 55, I think it’s time to retire, while I’m still the best!

The Guardian review of you in La Cenerentola described it as, “High Camp, irony, and huge fun”; it sounds like a cross between Rossini and Monty Python!

JV: In my operas I want people to laugh out loud. I don’t care about sensibilities, I’m not posh, I’m quite earthy, I suppose, and I like people to laugh at stuff that’s funny.

And you like playing villains too!

JV: Yeah – I do! Goodies can be fairly one-dimensional.  Baddies are usually the parts which are etched by the writers more carefully. The goodies are well… good aren’t they?! They say the right things, do the right things, like Cinderella.

The Marriage of Figaro, is a dark comedy; all about what was called the Droit du seigneur, which means the right of Counts to have the virgins of the village. But then what follows is redemption because the bad person turns good; so there’s somewhere for you to go with a villain.  Don Giovanni, though, gets his comeuppance, because he doesn’t repent. So I do like playing villains! I don’t celebrate how bad they are, but you have to be bad in order to make sure that the good comes out.

Some interpreters see Christ allusions in Billy Budd and you played the mutinous Claggert in there, to set the story up!

JV: Yes – exactly right, Claggert was one of those who was almost totally evil, but yet there’s one moment where he delivers: I want to love but I can’t ! He teeters on the edge, which is very interesting to play. Finally Billy dies almost sacrificially, a sacrifice is made so that that goodness can be seen. I mean what else is there?

Music is an extraordinary gift of God to humanity

JV: Well, if it’s not, …. I don’t know what is!!

I think we are creative people made in the image of a creator God

JV: I think so. “The man who hath not music in his soul, is fit for treason, stratagems and spoils!”, that’s Shakespeare, but the great poet O’Shaugnessy says “we are the music makers”, those who create order from chaos. Music puts order into a chaotic world. I intervene and I create the sound, the rhythm, the tone, the beauty. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s something spiritual, something transcendent that happens when I sing. Now, I have been given that gift, and I haven’t been given any others, I can’t do anything else, I’m useless!

But along with the gift, there is a lot of discipline in your art; how long does it take you to learn a part?

JV: It took me initially six months to learn a role. I’m partially dyslexic, so I do it over and over again.

To be the best at something they say you have to invest about 10,000 hours. I’ve done my 10,000 hours, so now I know the process of learning. But some of these roles take me months to learn. Some of them in Czech are very difficult.

You are actually called to be professional, with a big work ethic. I think there is something about being Christian in the way that you work; where you honour the people who come to hear you. I was quite ill recently, and I had to go on and do a show, which I got through with God’s help. People said to me, “Why didn’t you just cancel?” But I have a responsibility to my audience.

How many languages have you performed in?

JV: Eight! In whatever the opera is written in, be it Russian, French, German, Italian, Swedish, and a lot of Czech.

Is it hard to deliver jokes, in a language that isn’t your own?

JV: Yes – but you’ve got your body as well, not just your voice. You have your face, your hands, your body position. It does mean that you have to work harder than if you are singing in English. I would say that I didn’t really know what I was doing until about 1990. You only really start learning when you perform in front of people who have paid two-hundred pounds a ticket, where you either sink or swim, because opera is a ruthless world!

If you could choose one performance from those thirty-two years, as the one you are most proud of, which would it be?

JV: I remember doing Falstaff in Denmark at the Verdi Festival. Danish audiences don’t applaud a lot, and they certainly don’t give standing ovations. At the end of the first night, fifteen-hundred people all stood to their feet! I wept, I really did – I wept. There are times like that…

Then there are times when I perform with my sons. They are great musicians on their own, but if you ask me for a great or favourite moment, it’s when we come together!

Then, when I did Mozart’s The Magic Flute with the famous conductor Jane Glover. It was a huge performance for me, and I came on for my bow to three-thousand people giving a standing ovation. I looked behind me because I thought someone else had walked on!!

But there are two sides to every story. After the applause in Denmark, everyone came back to the dressing room, saying, “oh how marvellous, blah blah blah”, but then I went out of the stage door into the cold. It was snowing, and I went back to my hotel. As I walked out into the street, nobody knew who I was, nobody knew what I’d just done, there was an emptiness…. I thought of people without faith; what do they do? Obviously they will drink, they will take drugs and have affairs, doing what they need to do to fill that void, because applause is a drug. So when you get back in the hotel, and there’s nobody to give you adulation, it brings you right down to the brass tacks of who you are, and how you want to live and what is it that motivates you.

And which came first, Christian faith or professional singing?

JV: Oh, faith. I was brought-up in the Christian Brethren and I came to faith quite early, but I didn’t really know what it was until I went to university.

So what is at the centre of the faith you developed at University?

JV: The person of Jesus! People can get bogged down in church ‘stuff’.  But what we must look at first is the character and person of Jesus and if we don’t do that, if we don’t understand who he is; everything else pales into insignificance. When Jesus isn’t central, what becomes central is ‘my place in the church’, which doesn’t actually matter! So, I’m a Christian today, not just for Sunday, not just when I do my shows, but when you catch me now. Here’s who I am, this is me; and that is both a weakness and a strength.

You’ve never hidden your faith in the opera world though.

JV: No

How have people responded?

JV: Some people are antagonistic and want an argument! I don’t present myself as some kind of virtuous perfect guy, I just turn up and start working. I sometimes lose my temper, like everyone else does; but it’s how I then go and apologise that contextualises my faith. I don’t take my Bible to work and preach at people; but people do want to talk to me. Someone recently came to me asking “What do you think about faith? Is it difficult to be a Christian?” and I said to him, “Yes it is.” But it’s no more difficult to be a Christian singer than a Christian banker or anything else. You take in your core values, and your faith. You walk in with Jesus and you walk out with him.

Christians are deliberately very misunderstood, by an atheistic media who want to decry faith. But rather than shout and scream about that I just say, “well this is me; you can criticise me as much as you like. I’m doing my job, I’m doing it well”.

How do people respond when you talk about your faith in Jesus in your one-man show?

JV:  We’ve always wanted my shows to be a place where people could bring their non-church friends where they wouldn’t be embarrassed or made to cringe. I just talk about my faith and share it in song. And I have lots of responses, from total elation to utter disgust; from “how could you mention your faith; what’s that got to do with anything!”; to “I can’t believe you’ve made me think about faith, and now I’ve become a Christian!”

And you sing songs like, “I want Jesus to walk with me”

JV: Yeah by Eric Bibb! It’s one of the most wonderful songs. I often close my shows with that song, followed by “How Great Thou Art”.

What’s your next musical project?

JV: At the moment I have backed away from opera, I’m still doing it, but when I choose to. I’m now touring my one-man show “Song and Tales”.

Do you have any musical ambitions left?

JV: There’s one I would love to do… Sweeny Todd! I played the judge in Sweeny Todd, at Covent Garden with the legendary Stephen Sondheim. Todd is the arch-baddie; but one who’s been wronged. And there is also redemption for him, somewhere in there! I would fancy that.

What about personal ambitions?

JV: I did want to play cricket for England but that ship has sailed I’m afraid. Offstage, I always want to be a better person because ultimately, “singing is more than a job, but it’s less than a life!”

So what makes a complete life?

JV: I think having God in your life gives you context. It settles you where you are, tells you where you are in the universe: that you’re not the centre of it, but that GOD is, and He loves you.

__________________________

http://www.jonathanveira.com/

This was first published in SOLAS Magazine, reproduced with permission.

Beinn Sgulaird

If my last Munroing expedition was a disaster in which very little went right; today's was the opposite - one of the best days in the hills I have ever had! My wife & I enjoyed a night out in Oban, first at Coasters bar, and then a fantastic late meal at the Ee:usk fish restaurant, whose beautifully cooked fishcakes, haddock, monkfish and sea bass, were accompanied by a stunning sunset from the premises' huge windows. Eating fresh seafood, while watching the boats and ferries come and go from Oban's bustling harbour was a wonderful experience!

A good cooked breakfast in the farmhouse B&B we found via the tourist office (perhaps the last available room in Oban), set us up for a a day in the hills. We selected the closest Munro, Beinn Sgulaird, which neither of us had climbed; and made for the starting point at Druimavuich, at the head of Loch Creran.

It is perhaps a sign of the inordinate length of time it is taking me to pursue the Munro summits, that my OS maps are starting to become out of date. The massively engineered bulldozed track which skirts Druimavuich and ascends eastwards up and over the Coire Bhuidhe, is on recent maps, but not mine! The matter was quickly resolved with the help of an elderly Corbett-bagger, whose state-of-the-art smart phone contained accurate up-to-date mapping! Just as we were leaving, a familiar face appeared, on his bike. Jim Stewart from Perth, training for an Iron Man event was doing the circuit of upper Loch Creran - and stopped for a blether!

The new track climbs sharply into the hillside, until at the top of a zig-zag, a nice cairn points the walker to turn left and strike up the ridge past a large erratic, the the first top at 488m. The path continues all the way past this top, down a sharp descent and up and along the ridge to the major top at 863m. The ridge then turns NE and undulates over some subsidiary tops until the glorious summit of Beinn Sgulaird is gained at 937m.

The views from this summit were quite stunning. So many distinctive hills were easy to pick out, The Paps of Jura, Ben More (Mull), Beinn an Beithir, The Buachaiiles, Bitean nam Ban, Ben Nevis - and more. Beyond that were hundreds of mountains we couldn't name. It was ... stunning. My wife reckons these were the best mountain views she has ever seen n Scotland, and she has seen a few. Not only was the visibility excellent, but the sun shone, and the wind blew, to keep down the midgies. 

We baled off the the back of the hill, down a steep stony gully, and traversed around the bottom of the hill to pick up the new track back to Druimavuich, the car and then home.

Hill days just don't 'get much better than this!

Film Notes: Of Gods And Men

I picked up this DVD for a quid, in a sale of old LoveFilm stock. In the days before Netflix and downloading was a thing, postal DVD services were popular; but their demise led to some amazing deals. I'd heard that this was a 'film worth watching' and without knowing much about it at all, picked it up on the off chance. It turned out to be a deeply sad, very moving, and rather profound film.

The setting is Algeria in 1996, as the government start to lose control of the state, and Islamist militants cause misery and chaos in their quest for an Islamic revolution. In a remote corner of the country a small Roman Catholic monastery had functioned for years. Alongside their own rituals, and devotions, they served the community and provided healthcare and support. The film depicts them as being very much part of the community, in which they served; sharing life, hospitality and friendships across the religious divide.

The central plot of the film is whether the monks should abandon the monastery and flee, either to a safer monastery in Africa, or indeed back to France; as Islamist atrocities take place with ever increasing frequency - and in ever closer proximity to them. They face, essentially, a decision to run away from their calling, or to face death for it. The Muslim villagers certainly do not want the monks to leave - but to face up to the threat of the extremists alongside them. The discussions around the small monastery table in which they debate this decision are amongst the best moments in the film. One monk, determined to stay, says to a younger colleague (who wants to leave), "we already gave up our lives, when we decided to follow Christ". Strong stuff indeed.

As the film draws to a climax, the monks with sorrow and resolve, face up to the inevitability that as non-Muslims in an Islamist take-over, they are doomed. With their songs, liturgies, and around the eucharist; they re-affirm their faith even as the dark clouds gather around them.

This is actually a true story. Which possibly explains why there is more detail about the two monks who survived the ordeal; than the mystery about the deaths of the rest of those who did not. We see, finally, the sad group being led away to their deaths; and a caption reading that nothing is know about who murdered them. 

Lambert Wilson gives a really strong performance as the head monk, alongside Michael Edward Lonsdale as Luc - the medical brother, It's a slow film; in that the rhythms of life in the monastery which have survived generations are depicted. It's not an action film, in that the plot develops as much in the brooding tension and the monks' response to it; as in the actual civil war. That kind of cinema is far harder to write and produce than action; but it is done very well indeed here.

The film is a stunning protest against religious extremism, religion violence and intolerance. This message, along with the context of the last monks in an ancient monastery in Muslim lands, is somewhat reminiscent of William Dalrymple's stunning book, From the Holy Mountain. Although set further east, amongst the Orthodox and Coptic churches, not the French Catholics of Algeria, the extinction of these people and orders is a parallel story; and very worth reading.

The monks in this film share a 'Last Supper' together, waiting to face death, as Christ did before them. One wavering monk faces up to this with the biblical quotation, ''no servant is greater than his master'- in other words, if martyrdom was good enough for Christ himself, who am I to demand anything more? With their faith and integrity intact, they are then led away.

FORB (freedom of religion and belief), as enshrined in Article 18 of the UN Convention on Human Rights; is under more strain then in 1996 when these awful events occurred. Tragically, CSW (the Christian charity that works for freedom of religion for all people, of all faiths or none) reports that this is increasingly the case in Algeria. Click here to read more.

At Ruthven Barracks

Due to what railway companies like to call "unforeseen circumstances" I found myself alone in Kingussie one night last week. A stroll out of the village led to the dark and foreboding site of Ruthven Barracks, built to 'garrison the Highlands", after the Jacobite Revolt. 

Ruthven looks so sombre, as it peers over at the A9, that I have wanted to stop and explore it for years, but somehow we were always in a hurry North to the hills, or Southwards towards home in Perth, that I never managed it. Actually, that's not entirely true, I once took my sons there when they were about 5 and 3, as an addition to a day out somewhere in the hills - but when I stopped in the little car park at Ruthven - they were both in a deep, deep sleep which lasted until we were well South of Dunkeld.

With it's gloomy history, from a dark time of conflict and strife; Ruthven Barracks is a sombre place. Alone there, in the shell of the once grand building, with the sun sinking, it was positively eerie. My mind wondered outside to the remaining Jacobites, and their resentment, then inside to the barrack rooms; and wondered what the soldiers billeted here made of the situation. I can only imagine that the situation called for much rejoicing on either side.

Book Notes: Fools Rush in Where Monkeys Fear to Tread (Taking Aim at Everyone) by Carl Trueman

Trueman is, I think, a one-off. A serious academic, working currently at Princeton; a British minister in the American Orthodox Presbyterian Church, a historian engaged in the development of ideas, a reformed conservative who engages meaningfully with Roman Catholicism, and a robust defender of his savage critiques of ..... well, everyone really. He might also be the first really funny Calvinist since Spurgeon! He has opinions, very strong opinions, which he seems more than willing to put into print too. I spoke to him once, and found him witty, engaging, and thoroughly good company - and his passionately held opinions, love them or loathe them; are actually the result of serious thought and engagement with the issues.

When I picked up a Trueman book last week which was subtitled "taking aim at everyone", I knew it was going to be a read which would at times involve several laugh-out-loud moments, several sharp intakes of breath and several derisory snorts. I was not disappointed on any of those criteria! In fact, Fools Rush In, like a theological edition of Private Eye, succeeds in both entertaining and informing the reader, while skewering the unwise, the pompous and the hypocritical. Trueman has the disarming ability of not appearing to take himself to seriously either, which makes his stinging critiques of others easier to bear - as he seems to have no problem reflecting on his own sins, follies and foibles and those of his fellow Reformed crowd, as he does on those of other people and groups. In fact, if anything it is people who profess Reformed theology but indulge in worldy, or pragmatic foolishness who are the 'lucky' recipients of the most pointed helpings of Trueman's spicy invective.

Amongst the targets Truman demolishes in this book are self-centred 'Christian' bloggers and their (my! :-)) ) pointless outpourings; worse those who use them for self-promotion, constantly re-tweeting praise about themselves. He berates adults who cannot grow up, handle criticism, and are permanently adolescent, in comparison with his Grandfather, who was a working man aged 13. He throws out the charge that the celebrity culture has infected the church, especially the young trendy Reformed churches who ought to know better. His description of a wishy-washy ecumenical multi-sensory service; packed with high-brow academics with their brains firmly in the 'off' position is as hilarious as it is naughty. The insights he offers into the nature of Christian service, in 'welcome to wherever you are' are really wise and helpful, while his assessment of the notorious Chic tracts is as funny as it is sadly accurate.Catholicism, it's greatness and its folly is analysed; and the (sadly unnamed) Christian writer who used a ghost writer for his book is excoriated. 

One chapter stands out as especially relevant to today's debates - especially those which take place on social media. His essay "Am I bovverred?" analyses the role of 'hurt' and 'pain' in contemporary debates, Although written maybe a decade ago, this piece has become more important over the intervening years. His basic argument (written with his usual verve), is that the categories of 'hurtful' or 'affirming'; are replacing the categories of  'true' and 'false' in public discourse. As such, people hold their opinions as part of themselves; and therefore beyond reasoned debate. They state their views, along with their biography explaining why it matters; but then cry 'hate-speech', if anyone dares to engage critically with their work. This has happened again this week. A well-known author has published a theologically charged memoir, and when theologians have questioned the ideas in book; claimed victim-status as a way of shutting down the debate. Trueman, his critics should note, saw this coming. 

In turns wise, funny, outrageous and principled; Fools Rush In is a cracking good read. 

Book Notes: The House of Elrig by Gavin Maxwell

I have very distinct memories of reading Maxwell's famous "Ring of Bright Water", many years ago while sitting in the Arizona Desert. The intensely dry heat, the crumbly sand between my toes. the desert insects and the bold cacti, formed a strange accompaniment to Maxwell's easy prose, as he spoke of his life with otters, and the sea, and the lush green rain-soaked western isles of Scotland. I remember the book as disarmingly charming, whimsical - and creating in me a strange longing for the familiar shapes of Scotland; and for the sensation of cold rain on my face.

I picked up The House of Elrig, Maxwell's memoir of childhood, simply having enjoyed his other work so much. Although undoubtedly the work of the same writer, there is a vast world of difference between the two volumes. Bright Water is hugely enjoyable, and while it references a unique lifestyle - it does so in places I know, and takes place not that long before I was born. The House of Elrig, on the other hand seems to come from another time and place quite outside my experience, or really my understanding. That's not really the biggest difference though, which is that while Bright Water is delightful; The House of Elrig, I found if anything, slightly disturbing.

My initial impression of the book was that it was a window into a world I knew nothing about. I hadn't realised that Maxwell was of such aristocratic stock, and that he had grown up in a mansion in Galloway. The early stories are all of grouse-moors, tweed-clad shooting parties, servants, ghillies and roaming the estate in the company of a bizarre cast of eccentric titled relatives; some of whom I have stumbled across in history books, as they were members of various cabinets in Westminster governments between the wars. His yearly commute between great houses around the country, was described in detail - and something I found most odd. 

Strangely, Maxwell dwells little on the absence of his Father, who was killed in the opening salvos of the First World War. He tries to explain that this absence was simply his childhood normality, and that he thought little of it - other than seeing the physical memorabilia in the home. Yet - the absence of his father seems to be the unspoken central theme of the book, whether he intended this or not. His oddly intense relationship to his mother, was the first sign of this; followed by the separation from her for boarding school which reads almost like a bereavement. This reads like the start of a  psychcologists case-study.

I found the descriptions of the English public schools of the mid-Twentieth Century very weird indeed. As the product of a weak comprehensive education, I sometimes looked in envy at the perceived advantages of the exclusive education of the privileged elites who lived in our town. Maxwell's reminiscences of anxiety, loneliness, rituals and a veritable cast of misfits or weirdos amongst staff; make me think that Abbotsford Comprehensive, wasn't so bad after all. Maxwell's descriptions of what passed as 'sex education', which mostly amounted to veiled, incomprehensible warnings against masturbation; are beyond dreadful, and maybe as embarrassing to read, as they were for young Maxwell to endure. Maxwell's search for a father-figure amongst older boys, teachers, and uncles, again almost unacknowledged, seems to also be a profound, and unsettling subject in the book. He hints at, but simultaneously denies, that there was a sexual element to these relationships. It's hard to say whether he is inviting the reader to read more that he says into his words or not - what we can certainly say is that some of this (such as secret nighttime meetings with a teacher), would be absolutely in breach of current standards of child protection. His later teenage obsession with his sexual awakening might not be anything unusual, but he writes about it with a curious candour, perhaps telling us more than we might want to know in what sounds like catharsis.

While school was often miserable, Maxwell projected most of his longings on The House of Elrig, which represented belonging, freedom, home and the opportunity to spend time with animals (keeping them, killing them, catalogue-ing the, and drawing them). This love of animals which would so much shape his later life was formed here, in the Galloway Hills. The suspicion that he was more at ease with animals than people is also never that far from the surface of the narrative. School life came to an end after a life-threatening illness almost took him, as a seventeen year old. He was administered the last-rites as Henoch's Purpura gripped his adolescent frame, and internal bleeding sapped his energy. Surprisingly, he survived - despite the misdiagnosis of his birthmarks as ecchymoses by the celebrated Dr, Lord Horder! (Many readers of this blog will have come across Horder from the biography of Dr Martyn Lloyd-Jones, the noted Welsh preacher, who was Horder's assistant prior to his Christian ministry).

Lurking in the background throughout this strange tale is the family religion of the Maxwell and Persies. Maxwell makes frequent references to this, but doesn't name the sect in question until the very end of the book. What we learn is that his family, while happy to attend mainstream churches when away from home, were ardent adherents of a Christian group which was tight-knit, and specialised in producing ecstatic experiences, trance-like states, and strange prophetic utterances, in their congregations; they required members to pray from their incomprehensible prayer-books, and frowned upon such things as contraception. While basically orthodox in their core Christian theology, their innovation was an insistence that they were the restored supernatural New Testament Church, and their leaders Apostles. Bear in mind that this was home life, while starchy, formal, rigid stiff-upper-lip Anglicanism was Maxwell's term-time experience. No wonder, he found the whole thing mistifying! Only at the end of the book does he reveal that "our church", was the Irvingites (formally the Catholic Apostolic Church), a very eccentric and now defunct sect, which in some ways pre-figured contemporary Pentecostalism.

Finally, it's rather a sad book. Maxwell appears as a shy, embarrassed, confused, insecure, unwell young man who longed to go back to Elrig and ascend the moors. The glaring absence of his father seems to be the great elephant-in-the-room (or is that the elephant on the page), which would make Maxwell, another victim of the Great War. Although the book ends, with Maxwell and a friend, roaming the Elrig estate, it's hard not to imagine that the road ahead will not be easy for this youngster, after all that the War, the dreadful schools, the strange people, inflicted upon him.

An Lochan Uaine & The Ryvoan Pass

Lovely afternoon stroll in the Cairngorms, with old friends.......

Film Notes: White Material

This film, although beautifully made, is rather disturbing. Isabelle Huppert plays a coffee planter in an anonymous African Republic, which had been a French Colony; and then a protectorate of some kind. Early in the film we learn that the French military are withdrawing, and urging all remaining white people to withdraw, as the country disintegrates into a bloody civil war. Huppert's character, remains defiant in the face of danger however, and persists with her determination to bring in the harvest, even as her workers leave and her family disintegrates.

Huppert is brilliant as Mm Vial, the feisty-yet-fragile planter, who never seems to surrender - always seeking to fight back against the ever overwhelming odds surrounding her. Her acting, accompanied by a hauntingly beautiful, lamenting soundtrack, and plenty of character's-eye-view filming, make the film arresting to the senses.

Without including plot-spoilers, what makes this film at times unbearable to watch is the cruelty and suffering which accompanies civil war. Child soldiers feature heavily in the plot; and it is gut-wrenching to see the reality of children (some the age of my own kids), heavily armed, roaming the countryside, with no hand to restrain their 'Lord of the Flies' like descent into barbarism. That evil men commit evil acts is of little shock value, I suppose, compared to such horror being unleashed from those we would normally see portrayed as innocents, is actually chilling.

The family plantation becomes the centre of the action, as it becomes known that a rebel fighter known as 'the Boxer' is hiding out there; and the war between government and rebels grows more fierce. The already divided family, divide further over whether to stay and fight, or cut and run, with the adult son, descending into mental illness after a brutal (probably sexual) assault by teenage soldiers. The film ends on a grim note of betrayal and revenge, even as the war itself seems to be running its course.

There are a few moments when the plot is not easy to follow, although these do become clearer as the memory-sequences are made more obvious. Part of this is quite deliberate, in that the confusion of a nation in civil war, with panic, information and miss-information, abounding being conveyed to the viewer. Characters are often in fact, seem listening to the demagogic rebel radio broadcaster, urging his troops on to trash the remaining vestiges of colonialism. But, what will remain with me far longer than the plot, are the incredibly vivid scenes, the sense of foreboding, and the fear and confusion of a country amidst violent revolt. This was very, very disturbing indeed.

Balhomish

On The Balhomish track, Murthly Estate, Birnam.