Shifting Sands

A leisurely drive up the East Coast Bays get us clear of the city early enough to avoid getting caught up in the sludge of holiday weekend traffic. Excellent food on arrival is served up canteen style. A table full of writers make very talkative companions even though we are all total strangers.

The cartoonist in my head sketches three obedient females listening politely to the token bloke who is really keen to tell us all about what he is writing. Put this flash of insight down to the 13th sense and quickly scribble it off the page. Twenty-four of us are efficiently installed in three star dorm style rooms, then its time to kick off.

There are relatively few formalities for the opening of an event in NZ – taha Maori kicks in - with passion - later! The first speaker is the much admired and eminent storyteller, Dame Professor Anne Salmond, author of many books, (Hui; Amiria; Eruera; Trial of the Cannibal Dogs; Between Two Worlds etc) as well as numerous academic articles. The first half hour mirrors the biographical chapter that I’ve just read in Deborah Shepard’s book 'Her life's work: Conversations with Five New Zealand Women.' It’s a different experience listening to the personal story than reading words on a page. As a young woman, Anne was privileged to be party to deep aspects of Maori tradition and history. Some of it for publication and some not, so she doesn’t share all she knows with this captivated audience. I don't think anyone was left feeling bereft on account of that, and she is a very engaging presenter.

She is the first of two speakers to mention – with a sense of being ashamed – that our universities don’t produce competent NZ historians. If they don’t know Te Reo (Maori language) important sources are inaccessible. How can they give an honest account based on half the available facts? The ‘terra nullius’ perspective starts the clock when Europeans arrived – what kind of nonsense is that? No less than absolute! Refuting the philosophy behind the book Guns Germs and Steel, Anne identifies cultural superiority as the most lethal weapon in the arsenal.

My question is how does she ‘translate’ specialist knowledge for an audience that lacks the experience and conceptual framework to grasp its true meaning. Anne’s answer is tentative – broad and reflective. I get the point – there is no easy answer.

Monty Soutar filled the next two hours with stories that brought to life the history of C Division of the Maori Battalion in WW11, about which he has published an epic volume. Shocking numbers tell us that 70% of the enlisted men were lost in action and the remainder came home injured and / or with what has since been identified as traumatic stress disorder. This might explain a lot of problems visible today. Another explanation not visible to the casual observer is why so many men signed up to the only branch of the NZ armed forces that remained voluntary throughout the war. It is called ‘the price of citizenship’ and means that Maori knew that the only way to claim equality and a better deal for future generations was to fight on an equal footing with pakeha (NZers of European descent.)

Its fair to say that an awesome first day was had by all!

Moving like the wind

On the move again - just over a month back from the big OE and I'm heading for 'youkay' and the Association of Learning Technology Conference in the red brick environs of the industrial north (or is it midlands?). Anyway, to Manchester. The usual hectic pre-departure routine applies. Finishing conference presentations, dealing with work 'matters arising' and meetings, plans, publications etc. A brief pub stop with the guys from the end office and Adam, who is heading off for his own big OE on the same day I get back, marks almost the end of the working day before I head off to my 'second home and staging post' at Auckland International Airport.

Departure is easy, dinner ok, and the Ata Rangi red blend excellent. I even manage to get a decent amount of sleep. One of the more welcome changes that comes with the years is that now I CAN sleep on planes. Journeys seem shorter as well. Maybe its just a factor of being exhausted by the time I get on board.

I've only reviewed two case studies and three pages of the chapter I'm writing before work has to be packed away for landing in transit in LA. It looks the same, only maybe the dull dirty orange blanket of haze is a shade or two darker because of bush fires in the area. The incredibly 'tall skinny poppy' palm trees stick up through the haze like strands of hair through a foil cap in a colour salon. Immigration is slightly tedious but that's to be expected. I am fascinated by the finger printing and eye scanning technology that knows I couldn't give a decent print last time. High tech failure? Nah, it was just my hand cream blurring the screen!

Its good to be on the move again - it feels natural - as if I was born to a species that is permanently on the move. Moving like the sea, but without the water, and at 37,000 feet.

No pictures from this trip - nothing would show through the haze. The shot of an Air NZ Jumbo tail topped by a dense whipped cream mushroom cloud is still in the camera. I never have been able to find words to describe fascinating cloud formations. A wee flashback to the last return journey through Hong Kong where I sighted my first Airbus 380. Watched it land, taxi, fill up and take off again. So elegant for such a big lumbering bird.

The 'dwarf' 747 Jumbo jet in the background adds perspective. Its time to board my one again - on to London and a brief overnighter in Shoreham.

A gig down memory lane

Although not planned as my farewell to Edinburgh this time around, nothing would have made a better send off! Tam White playing at the respectably reformed Nobles Bar in Leith with a bunch of old pals.



Tam has been gigging since my underage drinking days - and you know what - all that practice makes him damn near perfect in my book! Thanks for the memory Tam.

Findhorn surrounds

A brief interlude on the pristine forest, lush farmland and sweeping-bay coast east of Inverness is a world away from the city-lization of southern Scotland. Many a 1970s visitor from the north brought stories of the Findhorn Foundation and left a lasting impression of wonder, never tempered by the reality of a personal visit. A community where people of democratic and land honouring tendency lived harmonious lives and grew giant vegetables. 2009 was a good time to visit as the community has matured into a sustainable and economically viable hub for community education, living and entertainment.
An orchestra performance on the evening of our arrival attracted residents and visitors from a wide surrounding area. The onsite café was closed by then, so a leisurely 2km stroll led to one of three village pubs offering delicious meals at harbourside tables where long summer evenings can be savoured. A glass or two of cold rose wine wash down Orkney herring, the best fish and chips in the country or wild local salmon fillet and sumptuous helping of fresh salad and veggies.
Walking is very much the activity of choice - through the forest from the community, along miles of sand dunes behind a beach peppered with abandoned WWII concrete bunkers, to the ancient Pictish fort at the village of Burghead.
A notable scrap of history that might explain the high productivity of local farmland is the story of the ‘buried barony’. Just across the bay from Findhorn stands the forest on Culbin Sands. This area was fertile farmland until it was buried by a massive sand storm one night in the mid 1600s. The much altered coastline is an attractive feature today - a thin veil over a tragedy of the past. The local heritage centre holds these and other details of the area's long recorded history.
A more 'modern economy' touch catches my eye in passing (clue = wording on the sign between the boats)

Highland waters

Spent a few relaxing days trawling around coastal villages north of Helmsdale and south of Wick. Midsummer is a fabulous time of year to explore this area, particularly when the weather is being kind to visitors. Living here all year round and trying to make a living would have been a very different story a hundred and fifty years ago. Kelp harvesting in a sea full of jellyfish would not have been pleasant.
The small size of fishing boats doesn’t make the work look too appealing even in calm weather.


Interesting though, to watch a catch being landed at either Latheronwheel or Lybster (can’t remember which). A two man operation hauling baskets of huge crabs, shiny silver fish (probably herring or mackerel) and large lobsters up the harbour wall attracts an audience of 20 or so visitors plus the wife and toddler daughter of one of the fishermen. The catch is no sooner up than its transferred to big plastic colanders with lids, tied to anchor rings and dropped back over the side.
The man must have answered the same question hundreds of times but still manages to do it with grace and patience. The catch must be kept fresh for export to markets in Spain at the weekend, five days hence. I guess the pile of dead ones on the seabed didn’t survive til Sunday.

Beauty and tragedy in Scotland

A visit to the clan Gunn museum at the small town of Latheron in Caithness was blessed with sunshine in an area more used to grey skies and howling winds. Life in this part of northern Scotland would have been rough enough before people were forced to move from inland crofts to the coast to make way for sheep. The highland clearances, as this trdagedy has come to be known, must be Scotland’s worthiest claim on man’s inhumanity to fellow man.

The clan museum is housed in an old church beside the main road running north and south. Attractive enough from the outside, the stag’s head and tartan cloth décor at the entrance sets the stage for what’s inside. We arrive early, just as a young man with dreadlocks and a broad northern English accent is unlocking the door. A browse through the graveyard while he finishes his smoko reveals many potential ancestors. This is clearly the homeland and final resting place for many of the old clan.
An hour later, I come away with no souvenirs and a feeling that the people commemorated in this building are more likely to be the ones that chased my humble kin from the land. Nothing suggests otherwise, and there is no specific information about when and why so many of the clan moved south. Most likely it was due to poverty and the clearances. My lot appeared in Leith, the seaport of Edinburgh around the 1840s, so the dates would tie in.

Between Latheron and Helmsdale, which is the wee fishing town where we stayed, a sign points to the remains of a clearance village with the unusual name Badbea. The name is said to be derived from bad = tuft and beithe = birch. A short walk past warning signs about sheers cliffs and high winds leads to a beauty spot with a long dry stone wall separating the land from about 100 metres of uncultivated cliff top. The uncharacteristically calm and sunny weather can do little to mask the harsh reality of life in such a place. The story goes that animals and children had to be tethered against the danger of high winds.
Extended families of Gunns and Sutherlands lived in this godforsaken spot. Their names are now immortalized on a monument erected by a descendant who came back to visit from New Zealand. The last resident left Badbea in 1911 and only a few ruins remain.
Its a beautiful day though, with the sun shining on rocky remains of crofts, a calm sea in the distance, tall digitalis waving in the breeze and other hardy plants in flower.
But the wall brings a sense of sorrow, running miles away over the horizon. Men from Badbea village earned a pittance building that wall to separate good land for the sheep from the miserable cliff edge their families were forced to live and die on. A tragedy indeed!

Ramblings in Edinburgh and the Borders

By the weekend I feel I’ve earned a brief sojourn away from the computer desk. First stop is Kelso, the Scottish Border town with ruins of an 11th century abbey beside a river where tourists pay filthy amounts of lucre to catch trout from oft replenished stocks. My interest is more personal – great nephews wee Erchie and not so wee Cammie playing their respective favourite sports, and their ma and pa who I haven’t seen in a while.

I also wanted to grab partings shots of Hardiesmill Farm cottages. Family owned for twenty years, they will soon pass into the hands of strangers. My own son Calum spent a few happy years of baby and toddlerhood here before we moved back to the city for work and a more active social life. The only small creature now in residence is Luna, the doe eyed hound who moves remarkably fast on her stumpy Bassett legs.

Edinburgh is just an hour’s drive back up a quiet road on an exceptionally beautiful sunny morning. The WWII invention of city allotments for residents with green fingers but no garden is productive at this time of year. Other green aspects of the city landscape are also easy to find – this one is Duddingston Loch, made famous by a painting of a black clad ice skater and home to a large avian population.

A near perfect day in this unusually warm and welcoming home-town of mine is rounded off with some live music of the highest class. What looks from the outside like a brand new Festival Theatre is instantly recognizable inside as the old Empire. Ghosts of Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and David Bowie dance across the stage until the lights go down, and someone else I’ve been a fan of since those heady 70s takes over – now with his son in tow.

Home from the sea...

This trip, like others back to the my old homeland makes change stand stark before a hazy backdrop of memories. The depth of field is long, as I notice and explore threads of history previously ignored. My purpose is a mix of business and pleasure, so the trail branches out in many directions. Some paths I follow briefly. Others I will return to many times.

A black and white lens with occasional cracks 'where the light gets in' replaces the vivid colours of last week’s Mediterranean landscape. There is a parallel in time though. When the Knights of St John built mighty sandstone fortresses against to onslaught of marauding Turks, the Scots defended their ground from gray granite castles on windy hillsides and lived in towers with metre thick walls.
The ancient city of Stirling looks beautiful in warm summer tones with just a few modern touches superimposed.
There’s nothing modern about the buskers in the town square keeping a large crowd entertained on a Saturday afternoon for the price of a gold coin (or other) donation. The sound of pipes and drums is stirring, almost elemental. The performance of men in traditional tattoos and highland dress - not the gentrified version - mesmerizes.
But the sunshine never lasts long in Scotland. Billowing gray clouds gather often to temper the light and douse the land with the water of life. Rather too much than too little! I can never quite find words to describe the richness of the colour gray that fills the skies in the build up, or the way it manages to transform daylight into a powerful sense of foreboding.
A few random memories bring a brief sojourn in the southern central region to a close. The wee sweetie shop represents a generation with hard candy and sugar-rotted teeth cemented in place by massive amalgam fillings. My generation - but I buy some hard peanuts flavoured sweets to suck on for nostalgia's sake.
The monument to 13thC hero Rob Roy McGregor would not look out of place in a comic with the commonplace battle cry ‘see you jimmy’ for a caption. One of many, many reminders of the fabulous, familiar, infallible Scottish sense of humour.
Another monument in the old graveyard up by the castle honours John Knox, the great protestant reformer. The man was, by all accounts a brute, whose activity may have later spawned the forerunner of the gesture of throwing shoes - though in the form of a stool - by outraged parishioner Jenny Geddes in an act that earbed her a place in history. The same ‘see you jimmy’ caption could apply.
Maybe both these historic, local heroes sent out a warning that the mods were moving north! The invaders might be different, but the principle remains the same.

Land and sea

The entire recorded history of Malta could be presented in a series of pictures of buildings, caves and seascapes. The caves featured in an earlier post, so only the buildings and seascapes remain. Many of the buildings are churches and this needs no explanation beyond dates, which go back to somewhere around 1640 and the early days after the island became home to the Knights of St John. For someone who has never been to Rome, Malta seems like an excellent second choice.

Fabulous baroque palaces serve as a reminder of how the aristocracy lived - and still live in some cases - outside the church compounds.


The art of dry stone wall construction is visible everywhere outside the city centres, and Roman aqueducts still stand in various cities leading into the capital.


New building is intensive and designed to service a growing tourist industry. Offshore, the island's natural harbours service all kinds of seaborne transportation.
This all too brief stopover in the central Mediterranean proved to be surprisingly informative and thoroughly enjoyable on many levels. Not least of which were the time to reacquaint with aging parents in a place they lived as newly weds, and a prompt to explore history older than anything previously encountered. The long days of uninterrupted sunshine were a bonus.