Whole for the Homie Days

 So Easter has arrived.

And so has the family.

Dear Sylvie has managed to make it home for my special homemade hot cross buns.  She's even brought her cougar with her.  How surprised we were to learn that the industrial bag of kitty litter I bought would not be needed, as Cougar Anne is actually a human person!  Henry harrumphed a great deal.  What with The Other One pregnant with no husband, and now Sylvie being queer with a 50-year-old escaped convict, he's almost glad that Alistair just plays rugby and shags his way around the Northeast with no prospects to speak of, to say nothing of the academic glitter we had once hoped for on his behalf.

In any case, Sylvie says we have the UK Border Agency finally collapsing under its own incompetence to thank for her visit.  If they were actually any good, they would have realised that her passport had been flagged by the police forces of 67 countries and that Anne's was completely fake.  But whatever facilitated her homecoming, we're glad to have her here.  The less said about the laundry the better, however; I think Smeaton is still sulking.

We're a full house here at Airnefitchie, and though The Other One only communicated through Skype, seeing her blossoming face through the webcam really made it feel like she was here.

This bank holiday weekend will, therefore, be an unexpectedly busy one.  I will have to make an extra batch of hot cross buns tomorrow morning, as the ones I made today were demolished as soon as they came out of the oven.  Henry and I didn't even get a look in.  I'll have to drive out to the abattoir to make sure the lamb we picked for Sunday lunch will be big enough.  And the digging up of significant numbers of additional potatoes will be de rigeur.

So Happy Easter and/or Spring Festival, everyone.

A New Frond on the Family Palm Tree

There's to be a new member of the family.

No, don't worry.  Henry's not been up to that particular challenge since a particularly unpleasant round of polo shortly after dear Sylvie was born.  Polo sticks went places and everyone gave as good as they got.

There may or may not have been yaks involved.

 

No, indeed.  The Other One in the rock scene in California has announced her intentions of becoming a parent.

This leaves one with a rather tricky conundrum.  Just what does one buy for a brand-new person with whom one has had no opportunity whatsoever of getting acquainted?  And what about a gift for the exhausted new parents?

I know it's a long way off at the moment, but I can't contribute much worthy advice to the mother-to-be.  Things have changed so much since I had my three.  You're not allowed to drink any more for one.  Even brie is out of the question.  How pregnant women cope these days without the necessities of life is beyond me.  I used to drink a hot toddy laced with honey whenever the baby kicked me in the kidneys.

Henry suggests getting The Other One a husband, but I rather think that's not moderne enough for her.  Hence California, I suppose.

I see many people buying practical gifts, which is more my style.  Why buy them something the baby will grow out off in a day?  Especially when there never seem to be any clean burping cloths or clean nappies about when you need them.  Of course, now you get disposable nappies.  All seems a bit wasteful to me, and prevents me from passing down the terry-cloth ones I kept after all three children were finally getting the hang of the north tower garderobe.  They are particularly good at cleaning up grease and oil when I've been tinkering with the tractor (the cloth nappies, not my children).

So, I thought I would buy her nappies.  But then, surely this would take away the fun of finding out which nappies leak: an important milestone for any up-and-coming new family with more tapestry-upholstered seventeenth-century furniture than anyone in 'Miracle Mile 90036' ought logically to have.

And baby clothes?  What would they be like?  It's 44 degrees in the shade seven months of the year.  I dread to think how The Other One plans to dress her bairn, really I do.  Probably in Rolling Stone and/or Rolling Stones t-shirts.

Nay; I'm at a loss.

Perhaps I'll just buy her a large economy-sized bottle of Mrs Winslow's Soothing Syrup instead.

Though of course, I might not get around to actually sending it to her.

The taste for it rather sticks with you.  For life.

Baronets Can't Be Choosers

Don't know about you, but we've had a lot of snow lately.  Even our Irish wolfhounds, Patches and Fang, were having problems striding across the fields on their daily jaunt.

Maybe we should have got black Labradors

Henry got stuck in the Land Rover on our driveway.  We dug him out, of course, with shovels and the brute determination that gin and whisky shall be replenished, come what may.  (In fact, we couldn't possibly wait until May.)  This prompted me to take our tractor into the garage where I became covered in engine grease and oil whilst fitting the snow plough to the front of it.  I think I've burned off the caloric equivalent of an entire army division's rations for a month, between clearing snow, gritting tarmac and filling in potholes with more grit.  This of course means that I can eat what I like for the rest of year.

It all reminded one of that winter a few winters back that was just terrible.

Although we are a considerable distance from the middle of nowhere, we're never normally cut off completely.  Via a combination of the Land Rover That Could and the Tractor That Could Just About, we could normally get to the nearest pub at least (they're worth it too – they don't just batter fish, they batter whales); and from there we could get to civilisation with gritted roads and proper snowploughs.

That winter, however, we were completely cut off.  The snow breached the grille on the Land Rover, and blew down its snorkel.  The fuel lines on the tractor had frozen because Alastair had forgotten to put it away after winning the Annual Winter Loch Ice Tractor Run for the third year running.

So, we holed up in the castle.  Now, in a house, this is relatively easy.  You just crank up the heating a notch, bundle on the layers and tuck away into a nook or a cranny with a good book and a hot chocolate.

You can't really do that a place like Airnefitchie.  Turning the heating up a notch could blow the planet sky high, to say nothing of one's bank manager.  So, we bundled on as much wool as we could and leapt about the place, closing up guest rooms and the billiard room, shoving putty into cracks in the window frames, stuffing old duvets up unused chimneys, and tucking towels under doorways.  This left us with the kitchen (which is always the warmest room in the house due to the Aga), the sitting room and our bedroom.  Alasdair decided to camp out in the utility larder, with the clothes dryer and venison jerky, wearing his mountaineering gear, sipping ale through a straw to minimise exposure to the air.

Effect ruined somewhat by the umbrellas

Now Henry and I were settled in front of the Aga, with a hot toddy and a dog-warmer on each pair of feet.  The wind howled through the battlements and rattled a couple of windows.  We supped on hot whisky and nibbled on cheese biscuits.

Then the lights went out and a huge gust of wind blew out the Aga as well.

Ah

That was unexpected.  I bundled on even more wool and replaced my wolfhound with wellies.  Wedging a flat cap on my head, I bravely opened the kitchen door and ventured out to the generator shed.  I vaguely remember Henry shouting something about letting all the heat out as I trudged through the ever-thickening layer of snow.

I could feel the heat leach out through my layers; the neoprene in my wellies clearly wasn't up to spec.  The wind blew the hat off my head and I couldn't see anything but white.  Luckily, I knew the way blindfolded.  When we inherited the place, there was no indoor plumbing so the generator shed used to be the outhouse.  Things have changed, but the memory still haunts me to this day.  I'll never forget where the outhouse was.  If you did, there could be consequences.

Upon reaching the shed, I located the fuse box – one of those great big old things, where you have to wire the fuses yourself.  Only this time, it was full of snow.  It was like bailing a dingy in a hurricane.  No matter how much I scooped out the snow, more just took its place and multiplied.  How inconvenient.

The generator itself wasn't having much luck either.  Knowing it was only a matter of time before the entire shed filled with snow – although how was still unclear to me – I hiked back to the castle.

'Well, Henry, the power will not be with us long.  Fancy a cup of tea?'

Using an old camping stove and some questionable gas canisters, we managed to make a rather serviceable meal.  We didn't hear much from Alistair.  There was a gurgle at one point, but nothing more than that, and he didn't move when we went in for a tin of beans.

Camping is a lot more fun when it's done within your own home.  None of that tent rubbish for a start.

This is not how it looked in the instructions

That was until we went to the wine cellar.

'Cyn!  Cyn!  This is just godawful!' came Henry's cry of despair when he went down into the cellar for some claret to accompany our baked bean sandwiches.  He came storming up the stairs again, with a solitary bottle of wine in his hands.  'This is all we've bloody got!'

It was rosé.

Fizzy rosé.

How it got there, we'll never know, but it was a disaster.

'Okay, don't panic,' I said, with panicky looks around the kitchen.  There was the cooking wine, but that would be vinegar by now.  'Are you sure that's all we've got?'

'Damn it, yes!  Unless you want to open great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather Airedale's stash, there is nothing!  Not a blasted thing!'

We had run out of wine.  What were we going to do about it?

'We'll have to pop down to the shops.'

Who said it, we'll never know, but it was a universal truth spoken in a whisper that echoed through the entire castle and was swept up by the wind to be carried out to sea.

'Right.'  The decision had been made.  Action was needed.  'Right,' I repeated.  A quick think through the options was taken.  'We'll need a toilet brush, a shovel, a hose pipe, warm water and the mesh from the utility larder window.'  I looked around.  'But let's eat our beans first.'

Using a complicated system of Irish wolfhounds, Alisdair, and badminton-racquet snowshoes, we got to the garage with all our equipment.  We dragged the snow-logged Land Rover into the garage and proceeded to clear it of snow – using the toilet brush around the tyres.  The hose pipe went up the snorkel to push the snow out.  Once clear I covered the opening at the top with the mesh from the utility larder window.  It would hold the snow off for the length of time we needed.  Warm water over the exhaust pipe melted the snow inside and it ran out as cold water instead.  We poured the last of the warm water over the snowplough, which was still attached to the frozen tractor.  With a torque wrench and the combined strength of three desperate people, we got the plough off the tractor and onto the Land Rover.

We tentatively tried to start the car.  It started.  We tentatively waited for it to die.  It didn't.  It kept chugging along nicely, warming up and filling the garage with exhaust fumes.  We had to open the garage door and let the cold in.  The car still didn't die, and neither did we.  All good signs.

Leaving Alaster and Henry with clear instructions on how to dig a path to the driveway I left them to have a quick change of clothes (grease, sweat and tears is not a good look wherever you go).  I got back to find they were half way to the driveway; I climbed up into the driving seat of the Land Rover.

I have found that there are certain clothes that will mentally prepare you for a weather apocalypse.  Wearing them suddenly makes you feel ready for anything, and makes you think everyone else are wimps for complaining about a bit of snow.  I was wearing such an outfit; my brown winter Barbour waxed to the nines, my hardiest tweeds, my warmest wool jumper and the snuggest of welly socks.  My feet were clad with my most serious welly boots, in a serious British Racing Green and with a serious grip on the bottom and custom (subtle, but effective) snow spikes.  I borrowed Alister's fingerless mountain gloves and gripped the steering wheel.  Only one thing was not quite right and that was my hat.  I could only find a tweed baker boy cap, so I looked vaguely like a street urchin.

Damnit!  I forgot my pink carnation!

I waited.

'Oh come on you two!'  I was getting too warm now.

Eventually they hit the edge of the driveway.  Perfect.

'Move out of the way!' I shouted and thundered the Land Rover out of the garage, towards the snow drift that was the driveway.

I braced myself, but the Land Rover ploughed on through.  I was on the move.

There were the usual snow-driving incidents: nearly hitting a stag, saving city folk whose nifty Fiat got stuck, saving red squirrels from desperate rabbits, picking up the odd roadkill pheasant, etc., etc.  When suddenly, what into view should have hoved but the wine shop.  I came to an abrupt stop outside, probably mounted on the kerb (how would one tell?), and dashed inside.

'Help us, man!  We've run out of wine!'

No one was there.  Odd.  They must have all fled when the blizzard hit and forgot to lock up securely enough from the wind.  So, I carried a couple of cases of red to the car and piled it all in the boot, then returned to the Marie Celeste for a box of whisky to put in the front-passenger foot well.  I left a note on the till and some cash, and with a triumphant hoorah, I jumped back into the Land Rover and sped off into the snow.

There were the usual snow-driving incidents; nearly hitting two stags, saving the city folk again, saving rabbits from desperate red squirrels and accidentally creating roadkill pheasants.

Eventually, I rocked up back at the castle and carried a crate of wine into the kitchen.

Dear Henry and questionable Alasdair were huddled around a tealight, eating venison jerky and growling at the dogs.

'But darling,' Henry whined, 'You got merlot!'

Woollander

Sir Kenneth Branagh just called – he wants his show back

With Henry away in Slovakia shooting something (not someone, we hope and trust), Alestair and I treated ourselves to the new police drama Shetland, produced by ITV Studios for BBC Scotland.  We were briefly interrupted by a telephone call from my great-uncle Haldenstøvare up in Lerwick, who was watching the same programme, and who complained for six or seven critical minutes about the characters all looking and sounding like Italians from Glasgow – except, of course, for the impeccably Nordic-looking leading man, who is named DI Perez (Douglas Henshall).

Taking the long view, I calmed old Hally down by suggesting that Perez might be the grandson of a Northern Italian POW who had been held in the Northern Isles during the war, and who was named ‘Perez’, rather than something Italian, as a result of the Spanish Empire having ruled the city of Milan from 1535 to 1706.  He harrumphed a bit but rang off.  (‘Result!’ as Alastair put it.)

Whether the average viewer will come up with this Milan theory on her own remains to be seen, however.

Putting aside all questions of inappropriate accent and dialect, which I am assured are legion, this is a beautifully made example of the new subgenre which (with ITV’s steadily improving Broadchurch: see Songs of Ignorance for 5 March) I have decided to call ‘Wallander Envy’.  Shetland’s scenery, its clothes, and even the typeface used for its titles are beautiful and work beautifully together; the mystery is neither overly simple nor overly complicated; and, as inexperienced PC Wilson, Being Human’s bloodthirsty Whitehall posh boy Steven Robertson further extends his considerable range.

Alistair also asked me to mention that DC MacIntosh (Allison O’Donnell) was ‘plump and pleasing’ and to ask if she could send us her telephone number, which I certainly will not do. He disputed whether Sophie (Sophie Rundle) could really be an Aberdeen University student, however: he’s taken about half of them home for one purpose or another, and we can both dismiss out of hand the idea that any of these delightful young ladies would verbally assault a policewoman on first meeting her, over the natural structure of her teeth, in an otherwise non-confrontational situation.

'Just look at those gnashers!'

The same student’s research supervisor is also cartoonishly sinister and sleazy in a ‘we-hate-the-English’ sort of way, so as an advertisement for the King’s College Aberdeen Archaeology Department the show gets only one star out of five.

Be that as it may, there are several more significant problems.  The ‘ticking clock’ element of the series is the upcoming Up Helly Aa festival.  Now, I may not be a great genius of meteorology, but Up Helly Aa takes place in mid-winter every year '…on the same latitude as southern Greenland'; so if it were imminent, as everyone and their brother in Shetland keeps saying, one would expect to see some rain, frost, hail, sleet, winter (as opposed to autumn/spring) coats, gloves, and hats, and most importantly, steaming breath being whipped away by, at least, a strong head wind, or at worst, a gale.  But instead, everything whatsoever that we see is typical of the period April-June, at least here in Aberdeenshire, 250 miles farther south.

Perhaps the Shetlands in January are a tropical paradise.  Certainly, they are meant to be Celtic: or at least the soundtrack people blatantly think so, never mind that if the islands’ original Pictish inhabitants were Celts (and debate about this has raged for hundreds of years), they were wiped out by the Norse more than a thousand years ago.

Whatever and wherever the show's islands are meant to be, DI Perez turns from an avuncular slowpoke into a screeching he-Valkyrie whenever anyone connected with his case catches, or threatens to catch, the ferry to Aberdeen.  This is off-putting in itself; but the last time I checked with dear Sylvie, the best methods of cheating British justice did not involve fleeing to the British mainland.

Who or what is Aberdeen?

We immediately watched the second and final episode.  While underwhelmed by the climactic confrontation scene, which relied far too heavily on the purely visual drama of Up Helly Aa b-roll, we could have gladly stared at this programme for another hour even if it had no dialogue or plot at all.

One final note: if you are a space alien studying our culture via the media, you could be forgiven for thinking that one out of every two human beings is either a troubled Detective Inspector or a put-upon Detective Sergeant.  I can assure you that both conditions remain, in actuality, mercifully rare.

Poping Up Everywhere

So, the Pope is retiring, eh?  I don't blame him, really.  In this day and age it's very difficult to be martyred as pope, and so they're all living longer and suffering ill-health.  Why not retire whilst you can still remember your retirement?  It's not the first time a pope has retired, so why worry?

I'm more interested in actual 'firsts', not the 'first since…' and although this is by no means an exhaustive list of 'firsts', I rather like these 'firsts', which tend to put our 'first to resign since…' ex-pope to a wee bit of shame.

 

Pope Clement I (92 to 99 AD)

First pope to be martyred by being thrown out of a boat, tied to the anchor.

This was a punishment for his miracle of providing water for quarry workers, which resulted in large numbers of conversions.  For the record, his watery grave was the Black Sea.

Pope Saint Victor I (189 to 199)

First African pope.  He was born in the Roman Province of Africa: probably in the thriving city of Leptis Magna in Tripolitania.

 

Pope Pontian or Pontianus (230 to 235)

First pope to quit.

Arrested and exiled to the mines of Sardinia as a labourer, he abdicated on 28 September 235 AD to avoid a power vacuum in the Church.

Pope Fabian (236 to 250)

First Pope to be elected by dove.

'Eusebius of Caesarea…relates how the Christians…saw a dove alight upon the head of Fabian, a layman and stranger to the city, who…was at once proclaimed bishop by acclamation.'

 

Pope Siricius (384 to 399)

First pope to issue decretals.  His decree of 385 stated that priests should stop cohabiting with their wives.  Spoilsport.

 

Pope Leo I (440 to 461)

He was the first pope to have been called 'the Great'.  You'll probably know him as the pope who met Attila the Hun in 452 and persuaded him to not invade Italy after all.  Just because all your friends are doing it doesn’t make it all right.

 

Pope Boniface II (530 to 532)

First Germanic pope.  While that in itself is not earth-shattering, it is interesting that he changed the numbering of the years in the Julian Calendar to Anno Domini from Ab Urbe Condita.

 

Pope John II (533 to 535)

First pope to adopt a new regnal name upon being elected to the papacy.  This was because his personal name, Mercurius, honoured the Roman pagan god Mercury.

Pope-elect Stephen (752)

First to get so close, and yet be so far from the papacy.

He was a priest of Rome elected Pope on 23 March 752 AD to succeed Pope Zachary.  However, he died of a stroke only three days later, before being ordained a bishop.  Some pope-lists still include his name and he is sometimes known as Stephen II.  The Vatican sanctioned his addition to the list of popes in the 16th century, but he was removed in 1961 and is no longer considered a pope by the Catholic Church.  Who knows, in another 400 years he could get back in again.

Pope Nicholas I (858 to 867)

First pope to try an exciting career in marriage counselling.

When King Lothair II abandoned his lawful wife to marry his mistress, Pope Nicholas refused to grant an annulment.  At a synod in April 862, the bishops of Lotharingia approved the union, contrary to ecclesiastical law.  In June 863, at another synod, the papal legates, bribed by the king, assented to the previous synod's decision and condemned the king's absent lawful wife.  Upon this, the pope brought the matter before his own tribunal.  Nicholas I declared the Council to be deposed, its messengers excommunicated, and its decisions void.  He never ceased his efforts to bring about reconciliation between Lothair and his wife, but he wasn't successful.

Pope Formosus (891 to 896)

First pope to be tried and deemed unworthy of the pontificate after he was dead.

In what is called the Cadaver Synod, held in the Basilica of St. John Lateran in Rome in January 897, Formosus's corpse was disinterred, clad in papal vestments, and seated on a throne to face charges of perjury and of having acceded to the papacy illegally.  He was pronounced guilty and his papacy retroactively declared null.  The corpse was then stripped of its vestments, had three fingers cut off on his right hand (the ones used for consecrations, naturally) and ‘watched’ as all of his acts and ordinations were declared invalid.  Formosus was interred in a graveyard for foreigners, only to be dug up again, tied to weights and thrown into the Tiber River.

Pope John XII (955 to 964)

First pope to die whilst enjoying an adulterous sexual encounter.  It is unclear whether he died of apoplexy or at the hands of a jealous husband.

 

Pope Sylvester II (999 to 1003)

The first French pope, Sylvester II was also a cleric-scientist, who endorsed and promoted Arabic knowledge of arithmetic and astronomy in Europe.  He also reintroduced the abacus and armillary spheres, which had been lost to Europe since the end of the Greco-Roman era.  Unsurprisingly he was accused of having studied magical arts and astrology by his enemies, leading to rumours of his being in league with the Devil.  So, he's probably also the first pope to be suspected of sorcery.

Pope Benedict IX (1032 to 1048)

Pope Benedict IX is one of the youngest popes in history, having been approximately twenty years old at his first election.  Yes, his first election.  He is the only man to have been pope on more than one occasion, the only man ever to have sold the papacy, and the first verifiable person to have resigned it too.

In September 1044, Benedict was forced out of Rome, and Pope Sylvester III was elected.  Benedict's forces returned in April 1045 and expelled his rival.  Later that year, as Benedict was considered too scandalous for the Church, his godfather offered him some money to resign the papacy, thus allowing Pope Gregory VI to become pope.  However, Benedict soon regretted this and returned to Rome, taking the city and remaining on the throne until July 1046.  He was declared deposed by King Henry III at the Council of Sutri, giving way to Pope Clement II, but as Benedict had not attended the council, he didn't accept the deposition.  Therefore, when Clement died, Benedict seized the Lateran Palace, only to be driven away by German troops in July 1048.  It is unclear what the little darling’s eventual fate was.

Pope Adrian IV (1154 to 1159)

The only, so in a way first, Englishman to be pope so far.

In a prototypically Englishman-abroad sort of way, he died at Anagni on 1 September 1159, choking on a fly in his wine.

Pope Callixtus III (1455 to 1458)

First pope to excommunicate a comet.

Although it has no known primary sources to support it, according to one story that first appeared in 1475, Callixtus III excommunicated the 1456 visitation of Halley's Comet, believing it to be an ill omen for the Christian defenders of Belgrade.

 

Pope Pius II (1458 to 1464)

First pope to publish an erotic novel and to hang out with Dracula.

He was also the only reigning pope to pen an autobiography, but he is better known for The Tale of Two Lovers, written in 1444 before he became pope.  It is one of the earliest examples of an epistolary novel, written as a series of love letters, full of erotic imagery.

Pius also influenced Vlad III Dracula (Vlad the Impaler), whom he held in high regard, to start a war against Sultan Mehmed II of Turkey.

 

Pope Alexander VI (1492 to 1503)

First pope so interesting and politically 'controversial' that he is being played by Jeremy Irons on Showtime.

Perhaps his life could form a new storyline for a book by Philippa Gregory or Hilary Mantel?

Pope Clement VII (1523 to 1534)

The first pope to be a papacy fashion instigator.

Yes, yes, he was the pope who excommunicated Henry VIII from the Catholic Church for marrying Anne Boleyn, but who cares?  That's been done to death.  What I'm more interested in is the fact that Clement VII was the unintentional originator of a fashion that lasted well over a century: popes having beards.

Clement grew a full beard as a sign of mourning for the sack of Rome.  The only precedent for this had been set by Pope Julius II, who also wore one in mourning for nine months in 1511-12, which was a violation of Catholic canon law.  However, Clement kept his beard until his death.  His beardy example was followed by each of his next twenty-four successors, right down to Pope Innocent XII who died in 1700.

 

Pope Urban VII (13 days in September 1590)

First pope to impose a smoking ban, the world's first smoking ban.

He threatened to excommunicate any who 'took tobacco in the porchway of or inside a church, whether it be by chewing it, smoking with a pipe or sniffing it in powdered form through the nose.'  This was eventually repealed by Pope Benedict XIII (r. 1724-1730).

 

Pope Pius IX (1846 to 1878)

First pope to be photographed; and very fetching he is too.

 

Pope Leo XIII (1878 to 1903)

First pope of whom a sound recording was made – and apparently, his performance of Ave Maria is available on the internet.  He was also the first pope to appear in a moving picture, blessing the camera whilst being filmed (by W K Dickson).

 

Pope Pius XI (1922 to 1939)

Pius XI was the first pope to use the power of modern communications.  He established Vatican Radio in 1931.  It began broadcasting on two shortwave frequencies using 10kW of power on 12 February 1931, with the pontifical message 'Omni creaturae' of Pope Pius XI.  Today, its programmes are offered in 47 languages, and are sent out on short and medium wave, FM, satellite and the internet, and it produces more than 42,000 hours of simultaneous broadcasting covering international news, religious celebrations, features and music.

And an honourable mention has to go to:

Anti-Pope John XXIII (1410 to 1415)

The first person to pursue a career as a land- and sea pirate both before and during his papal escapade, Dr Baldassare Cossa was later convicted of ‘piracy, rape, sodomy, murder and incest’ – amid other ‘more scandalous charges [that] were suppressed’.  One dreads to think.

So, don't get your knickers in twist about our newest ex-pope being the 'first to resign since…'  Why not send him fishing tackle and a gift subscription to The Field with which to enjoy his retirement instead?