Guilt is a five letter book

Being Catholic would likely have suited my personality well. Apart from the bits involving God, religiously authoritative priests, condemning morals and numerous variations of abuse in the name of it, Catholicism and I could get along famously. I particularly find the guilt aspect appealing, or rather: at least I would have an appropriate vent for the rather inexplicable bouts of guilt I often experience, for the most random of things.

Latest in the series: books. This time in the incarnation of 'feeling guilty about volunteering in a charity bookshop, and buying most of my literary procurements thence'. The logic goes: I love books, and I particularly love second hand books that have been previously read and loved and important to other people as well. For a book to become second hand, it has to be first hand first, and before it can be any hand, it needs to be published, printed, written. If everyone buys second hand books, and especially if we all buy the books for £2.50, which doesn't go back into the literary community or literary circle of life, as it were - where are the new books going to come from? If nobody is willing to pay, there is a risk that literature will cease to exist. It is already moving dangerously towards being a commodity like shampoo and seedless grapes, bought in 3-for-2 offers and get one free. This fosters the type of literature that spreads like rot in the apple basket - the pink curly-covers of Cecilia Ahern and Adele Parks, or the blood-dark symbol-ridden Dan Browns and James Patterson. It fosters girl and boy books, gift ideas, celebrity biographies and uniformity. It strangles the little books, puffs up the boring recipe-writers (and I don't mean the cookery books, although they are part of the problem too) and takes the life and love out of literature. Literary culture is dying - and I am to blame.

Maybe I am not solely, personally responsible for the entire demise of the culture of books, publishing and writing, but don't we all contribute, and isn't it my responsibility as a literarily educated bibliophile to lead the way to salvation? I do feel strongly that it is time I change my behaviour to counteract this downwards spiral.

So how to defend ourselves against the great evils that have ridden our lands? Some say that online bookshops are part of the solution. On Amazon, you can get access to narrow titles, experimental writing, locally published authors and out-of-print editions that would be nowhere to be found on the shelves in Waterstone's and Waitrose. True, and it is certainly a quick, handy way of browsing and shopping, with the added benefit of discovering related or suggested titles that others have liked, thus broadening your scope and, hopefully, giving more back to the sources of books than by getting things second hand through charity shops selling over-printed stock for a fraction of the price. But Amazon and similar outlets are part of the process of removing local stores, boarding up high and back streets, moving people out of the city and into their homes. For rural communities, shops like Amazon are a gift, increasing access to tomes that would otherwise have been un- or very difficultly available. But for cities, towns and villages with bookshops, libraries and other physical fronts for the paper and covers that make up the great feeling of text to touch and see up close, it spells out somewhat bad news. To be used in moderation, one might prescribe for the online bookshops of the world.

My only other current strategy is to hunt down the great bookstores in my surroundings, find them, use them, shop in them, ask about books in them. (That's another advantage of the small, local bookstore - staff that know and care about books. Tesco doesn't, the marketing graduates in various sales positions don't - but it is likely that the kid behind the counter in 'Brosnan & Sons', and Brosnan herself do!) I have my next target in mind: Edinburgh Bookshop, I am coming to shop! A detour to Blackwell's may also not be a bad idea. And I have cheated by starting in Waterstone's today - where I at least avoided any 'Special Offers' and 'Our marketing department recommends', and paid full price for some semi-narrow titles that were remarkably non-prominently placed in the shop. That felt good.

Geek of the week

I was geek of the week last week, sharing my flight search geekiness on Skyscanner.net. Read the whole interview there - and feel free to comment here, if you have anything to say!

Spring sprang sprung

In no time at all, spring exploded in Scotland. From a fairly grey first four months of the year, bar a few mentionable spells of sun and outdoor activities, May arrived with panache and pride in one big bang. The stately stone walled buildings are now contrasted with violent green, pink cherry blossom trees boom from parks and street corners, and soft grass lawns laying dormant for months have grown unmanageable and ruffledly untidy in just a few days. My lovely vegetable garden has gone from puny seedlings to tough turnip leaves and stretchy sugar snap peas - although the sweetcorn are still struggling. They're so dazzling and delightful that snails have taken a fancy to them: so a cleverly constructed beer trap has been mantled near the most tempting green growth. Hopefully I'll get to enjoy my own carrots this way, but who knows what is luring under the surface?

The heritage city of Edinburgh is particularly well suited to a striking touch of spring. I don't tire of walking through the streets, smelling the roses or other available flowers, and wandering between flowerbeds and lustrous green spaces sprinkled between the mansions of the New Town. I've also discovered that the secret to all this wonderfulness most likely is the refreshing rain pouring down at night, all but vapourising by the time the sun wakes up. To get a taste of the downpour, you have to choose your moments, so last night we went for a midnight walk - and secretly plucked some branches of delightful and delicate white flowers and green leaves now adorning the study. Such seasonal pleasures - spring isn't too bad after all. A strong 3rd favourite season if you ask me!

Horsing around

As I type this, I have blisters on my hands, sore arms and aching legs. It's all just a wonderful reminder that I was out horse-riding yesterday, and that it had been a while since last time I did - hence the 'injuries' of inexperience.

In the last post about my lovely bookshop, I told you how I'd found Saturdays somewhat wanting - until now. I finally seem to have found the perfect recipe for great Edinburgh weekends, notwithstanding the aches and weariness on Mondays. Starting with Saturdays in the bookshop, combined with strolling, reading, cafés and museums if one so pleases, Sunday should be spent on horseback for a few hours, then off to the pub quiz in Leith for some intellectual challenges. Bliss, as they say.

After many years of horseriding when I was but a wee girl, quite a while went by with no encounters of the equestrian type - if you don't count a marvellous beach ride in Morocco, but that was really more an exeption (and also far from the security measures employed over here). Then, in Dublin I discovered Glendalough Equestrian Centre, a diamond of a place nestled in the valley of the lakes, where two hour treks took us through forests and along rivers, near lakes and over glens. Pheasants, hares, foxes and deer were picturesquely dotted around the paths, and you expected to see fairies peek out from behind misty trees.

On Tower Farm in Edinburgh you are less likely to meet pheasants and fairies, and more likely to be hit in a head by a golf ball from the course that runs along the bridlepath (or the other way around), but the rides are still wonderful, winding their way through gorse and shrubbery, up hillsides and along well kept tracks. And the view is outstanding, taking in Arthur's Seat, the castle, Leith and everything around and beyond. Absolute serenity from the top of the world and on top of some of the most unbelievably beautiful animals. I wouldn't ask for more!

So this will be a regular pastime from now on, if my cowboy legs can take it. Mostly treks, and hopefully some obstacle jumping in the fields, as I've never really tried that, and I can only imagine the thrill of it. I also really fancy doing a Common Ride not too long from now, inspecting the city boundaries. And now that I'm a vegetarian on weekdays, I figure that earns me enough animal friendly points to justify the fact that I'd love to do hunting at some point...

Growing pleasures

Comparing apartments and rent in Dublin and Edinburgh is never going to come out in favour of the Irish. Scottish flats are considerably much bigger, comparatively much nicer, undisputably better, and definitely cheaper than anything on offer in otherwise delightful Dublin. The kitchen in current residence The Castle of Comely Bank is for instance covering approximately the same area as the kitchen AND living room in The Shire in Dublin. Another added bonus is the garden. Yes, there is a garden, and while it is not exclusively private to The Castle, I have repatriated a vegetable patch and a flower bed, as well as taking hold of most of the lawn.

So a new world has opened up, the world of gardening. Sunday was spent in blissful and blistering sun, digging up roots and chucking out old rotting leaves, burying centipedes and millipedes and spiders and other living things (I don't know if that is the way to do things, but I figure it may make good compost, if they don't survive being buried alive?), and generally getting my fingers dirty. The Irish writer was set to mow the lawn with the lawn mower, which until now has mainly taken up space in the workroom and served the very useful purpose of making me feel like a proper grownup. Proper grownups have lawn mowers - and really proper grownups (pensioners, even) have vegetable gardens.

This is previously unchartered territory for me, past experiences limited to successfully harbouring a basil plant in the kitchen for several months, and celebrating one tiny tomato after months of hard labour and hoping for sun. I now face a world of top soil, seedlings, drainage and fertilizer; there is a whole universe of plant varieties, acidic soil and not so acidic soil, germination and harvesting, and I face all this with a blank mind and a very optimistic attitude. Is it a good thing that the soil was very, very dark when I finally managed to clear away most of the old roots and dead plant growth? Are you supposed to clear out all of the old roots? How do you distinguish between your own weedy looking mangetout plants and murderous, vegevorian weeds that needs to be removed? The 8 different vegetables that are now lightly rooted in the little patch outside, together with a variety of herbs, will hopefully in 12-15 weeks end up as delightful sweetcorn, broccoli, turnips and carrots - and if they don't, I had a blast trying. Counting on a heavy loss margin, anything edible that comes out of this will be a bonus, but in the meantime I'm proud as a hen mother every morning when there hasn't been overnight massacres by the surviving centipedes, or general death by exhaustion for those little, lovely green things.

Plant on, I say, plant on.

Book me some time

Even if Edinburgh is an electrifying place to live, I've still sometimes struggled to get the deep, warm, good Saturday feeling that used to come very easily in Dublin. Maybe I've just grown lazier, or maybe Edinburgh is just bigger and hillier to get around - or maybe I just haven't found that something that ticks the Saturday box perfectly. Now I think I have, and I'm all the happier for it. In fact, this has potentially been the best weekend here so far, and the sunny and warm spring weather only has some of the credit for it.

One of the reasons: Yesterday I had my first shift in my new weekend job, at the excellent, first class second hand book store in Stockbridge, run by Shelter, a charity for homeless people. My involvement is purely voluntary, non-paid and charitable (in case anyone was worried that I am prone to moonlighting). Or, when I say charitable, I may have to admit that my own motivation is mainly selfish - although Shelter does great work, and I am looking forward to learning more about that too - because this shop is a haven of great finds. There are two charity book stores in Stockbridge, and I have of course researched both extensively. Oxfam is great too, but the selection in Shelter, and the amount of quirky finds available is much bigger. So I expect the new job to be having a substantial negative impact on my wallet, as one of the great things about sorting the shelves means that you find all the hidden treasures, but a very positive impact on my general state of happiness, as well as on the general state of my bookshelves. And on my friends' too - I've already found a cute edition of Grey's Anatomy for my soon-ish-to-be doctor friend, a Geek Chic book for the Skyscanner office (for all of the flight geeks there!) and several other secret gems that I will share with the people soon.

It is a great way to spend Saturdays. Finally, years of organising my bookshelves in various ways as my mood changes (alphabetically, by geographic origin, by theme, by publisher, by size, by colour...) is paying off bigtime. I spent 3 hours tidying books yesterday, and I have rarely been happier. Those are two of my favourite things in the world - tidying and books - and with the additional bonus of wonderful people and a level of conversation you rarely get anywhere else, I think I have found the perfect Saturday engagement. Did you know what the collective noun for starlings is? I didn't (also, I may have mis-heard at first and thought the noun in question was the collective for Stalins...) - but thanks to the wonderful extensiveness of second hand dictionaries, a well educated man in tweed has enlightened me: it is indeed a murmuration of starlings. So there. I am already looking forward to next weekend, and to the vast expanses of knowledge that lies before me in this pearl of a place on Raeburn place. Pop in if you're around!

Fresh cash dash

In the time of pre-euro monetary diversity, and especially in early days of credit card banking, travelling provided the additional challenge of budgeting, planning and transacting currency exchanges even before leaving your point of departure. These days, the ubiquity of cash points and the lack of variety in European money, all you need to do is get on the plane safe in the knowledge that there will be a hole in the wall upon arrival, with a well stocked supply of money that will most likely be very similar to the type you needed for your previous trip to anywhere. Hasta la vista and so long then, fond memories of collecting coins and notes with cultural insight and increased understanding of important people in many unfamiliar territories. Once, I even taped up three sheets of euro coins, all with different nationalities and symbols, and got a sneaky feeling that royalty and power does not necessarily bring beauty and relief-genity.

But there are still differences to how money is treated in countries with fairly short cultural and geographic distance between them. In Norway, I hardly ever carry cash, as everything is really transacted with a swipe of your card. My friends get the paper or a pack of gum by pulling out the plastic. Taxis have card machines installed, many buses too, as do every corner shop, newsagent and pub. I can barely remember what Norwegian notes look like. For any sort of un- or intentional shopping spree this is a dangerous feature, as you really don't get a feel of how much you've spent until you come home and scroll through the statement in your internet bank. With no fees for usage, and cashback facilities in every shop, the actual cash machines are few and far between.

In Scotland, being without cash means that you're unlikely to get anywhere or anything, particularly on a night out. The cabs don't do cash, and many pubs sneer at your card, even if you are buying the whole room a round. I still find myself short of cash all the time, as the inherent resistance against withdrawing money in large amounts is forever playing up, meaning that I need to plan my impulse buys of papers and milk, to time my rounds carefully, and more often than not walk the half hour home, not having change for the bus or the fare for the taxi. And to be honest, I still haven't figured out the coppers either, because the UK do have a whole lot of different coins - at least compared to Norway, with four whole varieties to choose from (I think). Hopefully that means that my next trip to the bank will be a valuable one, laden as I intend to be with my tin cans of change that are mounting up in the hall. I wonder if they will give me cash for it, or put it into my account?

Eyes wide shut - Is this it?

Being new somewhere, or to something, brings the undisputed advantage of seeing everything with a fresh glance. This an unspoilt look; it won't be ruined by having seen things a thousand times before, it is unspoilt of choice and options, and fatigue and weariness from repetition will not cause things, people, views to blend together and into the background. This look is precious, and it is very hard to willingly keep it active for a longer period. Once you become used to a place and its things and its people, you stop noticing them and the quirkiness of it all. The mind tends to want to run for cover in the comfortable protection of familiarity, it urges the eye to stop noticing things that are different and unfamiliar, because that means that we, ourselves are different from everything. And the need to be fitting in is a powerful mechanism, whether it works subconsciously or if we are aware of our own wish to be one of something.

But the advantageous new and fresh glance at things can be yanked awake from time to time, even after the slumber of mundane life and day to day commonness has taken hold. In my case, usually this comes in the form of visitors, who can help bring back the enthusiasm for things I myself found uncommon, different or just fascinatingly new before, but which now has become the norm against which I see and measure other experiences.

Take rugby, for instance. When arriving in Ireland, I was struck by the ubiquity of rugby (and even more so in Edinburgh), this sport which previously was almost unknown to me, which nobody talked about in Norway, and which I believe still nobody knows the rules of. Are there even any rugby teams in Norway? The players were huge, the enthusiasm for the very male sport played in tiny shorts and chummy huddles was fascinating, and the level of conversation to which presumably intelligent people could stoop to after a few bumps on the rugby heads was astonishing. But after a while it became part of life, a concept that was there in the background and that nobody batted an eyelid at, except to wink at the players walking by with giant muscles and clingy kits. I even got a rugby shirt, my proud Irish jersey that by now is so familiar that I don't even remember what it looks like, but I would recognise it anywhere.

And then my friends came over, with a mission to do certain very British things (and yes, in Norway Britain covers everything over here on the islands, UK or Republic, or anything in between). On the top of the list was getting on a double decker bus, then eat Angus Aberdeen Steak, then watch rugby. Basically things I can easily do every week, and sometimes do. Is this something I should look at with more enthusiasm? Has my mind and eye slumbered off and shut down to the magic of buses, beef and, well, beefed up rugby players?

So we went to a match or two, studying the moves, watching the scrums and the huddles and the lock-downs and the symbolic yelling. And I didn't understand, and I was fascinated, and I was awake while seeing the games in the park that I see every Saturday, but don't really notice. It was good, and it felt like experiences again. All I need to do then is to keep noticing it, and hopefully I won't fall asleep again, and I'll notice that there is cheap hair and shower products in the supermarket, and that the Big Issue sellers are smiling and saying 'Thank you love' even if you don't buy, and that people don't talk about earnings and raises, and that the bus stops turn the other way out and that gas heating is a brilliant concept. Maybe I'll need more visitors for that?

Cemetary, my dear Watson

Gloomy, rainy Edinburgh Saturdays may not be the most inspiring to go around and discover the town, but, already lagging far behind in my exploratory project, there was no way I was going to let this deter me from doing some sort of wandering about. In keeping with the mood of the day, I decided to pay a visit to one or two cemetaries in the neighbourhood. In Paris, walking through Cimetière du Montparnasse on my way to Sorbonne was both inspiring and a pleasant treat of silence, calm and order for a few minutes most days. It became a source for writing, for observations, and for grand thoughts about the world, the human being and about existence, quite similar to what I imagined some of the famous occupants, Sartre, de Beauvoir, Tzara and Beckett to mention a few, had pondered over in their golden days. Or so I liked to believe.

Comely Bank Cemetery has much less of this grandeur, and significantly less of the calm, silence and order too. Many graves are half-littered and in a state of forgotten decay, several tombstones fallen or pushed over, the walkways muddy, wet and badly kept, and fallen leaves from many months ago are rotting on the final resting place of many. It had taken me some time to find the cemetary, first getting lost in the grounds of the hospital next door - the practicality of hospitals and graveyards in a half morbid attempt to make the world more efficient always strikes me as a bit odd. While it may be handy for the transport, I wonder if patients like to be reminded of their mortality when they lay in their beds hoping for quick recovery? Or if proud parents of newborn babies appreciate the symbolism in that the starting point for their offspring is conveniently close to the end of the lap? Or even if those who visit their recently deceased think about the days that they may have spent worrying within the walls of that building, hoping that they wouldn't have to walk across the road? But I digress.

While the graveyard in itself was a particularly bad example of the sort, the individual graves were interesting enough, and provided enough food for thought. They did allow me to draw some hasty conclusions about different traditions, beliefs and common practices across different cultures. The way we present and remember our dead can say a lot about the living. Norwegian custom dictates that the person in the grave - usually just the one in each - is presented with a name, birth name is appropriate, date of birth, date of death and possibly a short saying or epitaph from the family. Years ago, it was common to list occupations if they were from a particular outstanding layer of society, but this has all but gone. The headstones are generally sober and simple, while recent years have seen an increase in embedded photos and signatures rather than 'printed' names. I suppose this serves to make the grave a more personal place, and brings the deceased closer to the surviving. Even so, I would be loath to sign my own tombstone, kind of like signing off for receiving a package.

Irish graves are more lavish, and commonly decorated with Celtic crosses, symbols and carvings. The headstones are taller, bigger and more imposing. Many have several family members in the same grave, all listed on the headstone - which makes it a requirement to invest in a large stone if you have a large family. The deceased are introduced with full name (née if they were married women), often with a loving "prefix", like 'Our much adored mother Mary O'Callahan (née Dunne)'. Date of death is then listed, with the age of the person rather than their date of birth. I have often wondered what this signifies, but it does make it more striking when you see the particularly young or particularly old presented with an age rather than with dates. Another Irish tradition is to mention placenames, which may very well be linked to the fact that many emigrated, many have moved away from their family and their roots, and for the surviving family it may be important to reconnect. Thus, birth place and place of death is also often mentioned: 'In loving memory of Eoin Hayes of Mohill, who died in New York March 31st 1997, aged 58'.

In Comely Bank Cemetary, some of the stones bore the same Celtic symbolism and inscription, while others seemed more of the tradition of simplicity. Again, mention of the age when deceased, rather than date of birth was more common, and members of a family tend to be buried together. This poses some interesting hierarchical challenges, when members of the extended family die in unparticular orders: In memory of John McMullan, also his second son Charles, his wife Catherine (if this was Charles' wife rather than John's, an indent is often used to signify this), also his youngest son Alistair, also his third daughter Shona, his wife Miriam (this could well be John's second wife), also their eldest son Martin (John's eldest with Miriam rather than with Catherine)' and so on. One particularly striking feature as such was the amount of information and text engraved on each stone. Following the family tree as it branches out, and in some cases where most members are presented with a quality (very special, much loved, always caring), a profession and even an education degree: 'Marjorie Simmons BA (hons), née Urquhart'. No wonder several of the stones were toppled over; the stonemasons are too busy carving letters, and have no time left over to re-erect fallen headstones.


No matter what they look like, the grave always tells some story of the people it is in memory of. As with the family of three, where the son, Alexander, died at the age of 11 1/2, and his parents never got another child. That half year must have been of such significance, and you can practically hear the yearning for just one more day from the sobering grave. And for the big family, where some died young, some died old, and the mother of them all is all the way at the bottom, the only one without an age. You never ask a lady her age, even in death. Or what about the 24 year old who is remembered by his family and friends with an engraving of a dart board and a hopeful message that they will meet again over the rainbow. Many sad stories, but many happy memories, is the true context of any graveyard. And on a dark and drizzly day, it is a wonderful place to walk around to get to know some of those who lived before.

The world is bigger than Scotland

Bus etickette

Queue nicely in bus stops that are designed like narrow tunnel systems with openings straight onto the road, with free sidewalks behind them. Let any exiting passengers get off in a timely fashion before you move onto the bus. Give correct money to the money hole by the bus driver, who won't give you anything back should you not have exact change. If you're not having a single ticket, you should say something. Otherwise, there is no need to talk to the person behind the glass. If you do talk, remember to say please, thank you!

Take ticket, printed from somewhere near you - it can come out in several places, keep your eyes peeled. Move towards some free seat, but not any of the priority ones. They are, according to the drawings, for people with walking sticks, children, a broken leg or similar afflictions. While moving through the bus, pretend to know what you are doing, show no fear. If you're really in the know, pick up a Metro. When getting closer to your destination, start preparing to leave. As soon as the bus leaves the stop before yours, get up, ring the stopper and move to the front of the bus, ready to get off. Try to remain standing while the bus starts and stops in traffic, and try to avoid swinging your bag in somebody's face or someone else's Metro as the bus turns a corner at high speed. When leaving the bus, make sure you thank the driver for getting you semi-safely to your destination. If you don't thank them, they are likely to drive past you next time you try to get on a bus. Actually, they may do that regardless. Or it could be that there is a secret sign to identify you as a potential passenger, not just somebody hanging out in an orderly queue at a bus stop. I just haven't found it yet, so buses tend to drive past from time to time.

During the two and a half years I lived in Dublin, I took the normal bus once, under friendly supervision. (I also bussed from Donegal to Belfast, and took the Aircoach several times. None of these count, you can just pretend to be a tourist, and there is no pressure to know any bus tickets or etiquettes.) The frightening circumstances of not knowing the many unwritten rules, with a total inability to decipher the bus routes and thus only being able to guess what bus would show up when and go where, proved too much for me. In Scotland necessity has proved to be a competent teacher, and as a public service to all of you: they are no longer unwritten rules, you can read them above and get on the public transport with no fear. (Unless you fear falling over on slippy floors after fast bus breaking - this is still a risk you have to live with, and happened to a poor woman on my bus only this morning.)

Oh, and the current adult ticket price is £1.20 for a single journey, £3.00 for a day ticket and you can get Ridacards for £15-£540 (from a week to a year).

Have a safe trip!

Fluid electricity

Ever since I moved to the great foreign lands of abroad, away from comforts and habits at home, some things have held particular fascination for me. One I've described the magic of before is self service checkout (still to this day a thrilling experience!), and now the time has come to marvel over leaking electricity. This is a concept that as far as I can grasp is only a problem in these islands, and may stem from the fact that the power produced here is a particularly flighty form of coal power. Or maybe it is just that they don't trust this new-fangled business of light and heating directly from the wall.

In any case, the fact that Irish and British people apparently think that electricity will steadily drip out of the sockets and add up on the monthly bills unless they turn it off at the root, is a continuous source of wonderment. So they have installed switched sockets, everywhere. I mean everywhere. Keep calm and carry on, lie back and think of England, and remember to turn off the socket switch. In one simple motion, no power will find it's way through to your heater or your TV or your bedside lamp. And no nasty leaks, you will want to make sure that the electricity company fat cats don't get hold of your hard earned money, for power you didn't even use. So the socket switch is ubiquitous. They come in all shapes and colours, and are often joined by fused plugs (in case the leaking electricity proves too much for the appliance, just blow the fuse in the plug so that you don't have to replace the whole thing. Pure genious!).

But laugh as I may, and with a slight condescending nod of the head I may look at these paranoid creatures and their primitive ideas of fluid electricity, it now seems more and more that the idea is actually very good. No pulling out plugs left, right and centre before going on holiday, to ensure that your telly doesn't blow up in case there is a storm while you are gone (people still do that, right?). Just do a round of switch-switching, and you can leave the cables in there as much as you want. No more dragging the fridge out in the middle of the floor to turn it off when you decide to go au naturel for a week (OK, nobody does that!). No need to haul out a whole freezer to get to the wiring in the back to defrost, all you need is to switch off that handy, external socket on the wall, and poof! Electricity be gone. I'm amazed, not at the idea of leaking power (you don't need to turn the switch off when there is nothing in the socket. You just don't.), but at the practical nature of this genious device that maybe we should export further, to an electricity-poor Norway in wintertime, for instance. Turn off the driveway heater with the turn of a switch!

As my friend the Wichita Lineman Glen Campbell would say: Such are the dreams of the everyday housewife. But switched sockets, not just a dream.

Back home

After a long stay in Norway, which was fantastic, relaxing, enjoyable and beautiful, I do love being back in Scotland, back in the world that I now call home. The Anglo-Celtic (?) culture and tradition is sometimes wonderfully strange to me, but also more and more my own and my home.

Flying in over Aberdeen (in a charming Widerøe Dash 8 100 propeller, which gives you a feeling of proximity to your environment that is hard to get in bigger jet engine planes, and which is particularly suited to coming home somewhere), watching brick houses with long back yards and clotheslines, little high streets, open fields and granite, organised in a charming, haphazard way that Norway's ramshackle but sorted settlements will probably never be. On the other hand, even if the towns are plotted out nicely and ordered, there is a lot less structure and stricture there, unlike the cultured neighbours in a fjord-ridden country further west. What Norwegians cherish in being out in the wilderness, about being in a primitive cottage without electricity and water to relax, with getting away from it all: the freedom and naturalism, is maybe what they banish from everyday life, from homes and cities, where rules, etiquette and expectations are often the orders of the day. On the other hand, in Ireland especially, and in Scotland, at least outside of Edinburgh, the people and the world are less formal, taking yourself seriously is less important, breaking the rules is more fun than keeping them, and the attitude is that "it'll be fine!" - particularly when it probably won't.

A striking example of this is the attitude to snow, which for many parts of the UK is a pressing concern these days. Norway has -23 degrees and a heavy layer of snow in the rainiest city, but the buses run on time, the plough cars are out before dawn (which to be honest is easy to do, as dawn is about 2 o'clock in winter...) and no schools stay closed just because the layer of snow is taller than the kids. The education will be administered, the roads will be cleared, everyone wears practical puffa jackets and sturdy winter boots, and there is no nonsense about this. Over here, people expect 'snow days' when the weather forecast shows 0 degrees celcius, expecting to get a day off work because it's too hard to get there in 10 cm powder. The trains collapse, the heating doesn't work, the council runs out of grit, salt and gas, but are we worried? Nah, it'll be fine! In Yorkshire, people and sheep huddle together in the pub, in North East Scotland they find alternative solutions for Christmas dinner, and in Aberdeen the taxi drivers claim ardently that it's only 'down sooth' that they can't handle the weather. It'll be fine up here!

And you can't but love it. It also helps having the Norwegian sensible winter wear culture - layers and boots really do help...

Welcome to Scotland, please meet the NHS

When travelling or moving to a new country, I like to try to get to know it well, getting under the surface and connecting by trying to behave like a local, learn the language or attempt to understand it by being very enthusiastic about and interested in the history, culture and geography. When living in France I studied French and tried to be like a snooty Parisian, watched French films, read and wrote about seminal French writers like Stendhal, and worked hard on looking seriously in thought over La Libération, Le Magazine Littéraire and a glass of wine. In Dublin, I sat in pubs with pints of Guinness and servings of bangers and mash, went on road trips to Leitrim and Cork, I picked up a random Irish accent and got nowhere learning Gaeilge for a year and a half. In Scotland so far, while not attempting to start Scots lessons just yet, I have read a busload of Ian Rankin books, listened to The Vale of Atholl Pipe Band and had at least one pleasant meal of haggis, neeps and tatties. My integration scheme has also been fast forwarded by getting proper Scottish blood running through my veins, possibly resulting in a refusal to pay any extortionate amount to go home for Christmas (in turn leading to some twisted, but cheaper, travel plans, thanks to Skyscanner.net and their genius price comparison systems).

Almost a month after arriving in Scotland, and only a week after starting my new job – which I love, so far, although I have really not been able to work enough to completely get my head around everything, something I am truly sorry for! – my body decided that a medical emergency would be just the thing to get me settled properly. Off I went, then, in agony, first to our new excellent GPs, which we found randomly in the old trusted phone book (as we still did not have our Virgin Media internet installed, thank you very much for the delay, grrr) and who helpfully got us registered quickly and I want to say painlessly, but that would be a blatant lie. The consultation was great, and free, the referral to the hospital simple and efficient, and when we got to the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh (I love hospitals with proper, posh-sounding names!), they were absolutely amazing there too:

“A spot of bother you say? We’ll cut you up and sew you back together, no problem. We’ll also be very professional, exceptionally friendly, helpful and competent, and make sure you are comfortable in every possible way we can. And it will all be free, even the drugs and the blood we kindly bestow upon you in exchange for all that of your own that you lost throughout this nonsense.” Scottish doctors and health staff (including the Irish, American, Indian and English ones who work here) are possibly the best ones I have ever met – and I’ve met a few. The nursing staff work 12,5 hour shifts, which is unbelievably long, but they are still insanely friendly, compassionate and knowledgeable. The hospital buildings are clean, modern, warm and spacious. I had a single room for my whole stay, and although the food wasn’t amazing, it was nutritious, healthy and generous.

And here, dear Norway (and Ireland, for that matter), is the real kicker: Even though I have not paid a single penny in taxes, even if I did not even yet have a National Insurance Number (PPS number/Social Security number/personnummer), treating me for free was the least they could do. For six days the NHS paid for my bed, my food (when they finally allowed me to eat, although I guess the intravenous stuff counts too), my care and my comfort. The scar might even be turning out to be almost invisible. I know there are debates about the NHS, but this is seriously the best health scheme I can think of. It also seems the Scottish way of running hospitals, more as smaller, independent units than giant factory machines we seem to prepare in Norway, are even more cost effective, as well as providing better care. And did I mention I was treated for free?

Imagine my joy, then, when I finally come home from hospital, stitched up and with less blood than I started out with, and find a significant bill (and I mean significant, we are talking several months pay here!) from the Norwegian government for taxes owed them. Taxes, what taxes? Tax on money I earned in Ireland, and for which I paid tax in full to Ireland. That should be enough, surely? No, Norway insists that I pay them taxes too – in addition to whatever I pay in my country of residence. They want to have whatever extra they ‘would have taxed me if I lived and worked in Norway’, regardless of whether or not I do live there. And it’s not like the money I have to pay will give me any benefits, like pension rights, health care or any of the other things tax payers’ money usually go to – no, this is just money I get to pay for ‘having lived in Norway for more than 10 years’. So, in my long-lasting recovery period, while focusing on resting and recuperating, one of the very annoying things I unfortunately have to do is fight with tax servants in Norway, which I can tell you is quite a bit more painful than being operated on in a nice NHS hospital in Scotland. I don’t necessarily recommend either, but I know which one I’d choose again...

Image from www.sxc.hu

New function - Find your flights here!

As a service to those of you who urgently feel the need to come visit wonderful Edinburgh after reading the blog, or to those who spend their work hours perusing the net and dreaming of the big escape, I have just made your day so much easier. At the bottom of the page, you can find a very useful tool to search for cheap flights around the world, and Skyscanner.net will help you find the cheapest or most flexible options. You can then proceed to booking with whoever gives you the best offer. Neat? Absolutely!

Please give me any feedback on this function, I want to hear what you think!

Thanks - and have a great trip!

Not Too Late to Remember November

Fireworks and nightly displays of bonfires have many occasions: in Norway we have New Year’s Eve as the big explosive night, and St. Hans for bonfire fun in the middle of summer. Ireland celebrates Bealtaine in May with fire and, while there is nary a rocket on New Year’s Eve, there are official displays on Halloween. In Scotland it seems they do like their big bangs, as will be experienced during Hogmanay, Edinburgh’s much renowned New Year festivities, but one also gets a good taste of the displays during Bonfire Night, or Guy Fawkes Night, or the fifth of November as it is known in the poem:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder TreasonShould ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'dWith a dark

lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!

For film buffs, V for Vendetta is also tightly connected to the story of Guy Fawkes, who conspired to blow up the Houses of Parliament. The Gunpowder Plot failed as Guy (or Guido, as was his real name) was grassed to the officials, and caught with ‘match in hand’ on the 5th of November 1605, near 36 barrels of gunpowder meant to destroy the State buildings and the royal family. The bonfire celebrations around the old Commonwealth mark the deliverance of the King and the failure of the plot to destroy the parliament, and traditionally an effigy of Guy is burned on the fires. The Gunpowder plot was led by Robert Catesby, a prominent English Roman Catholic, and with the experienced soldier Guy Fawkes in charge of the explosives, a group of Catholic rebels had planned this as a revenge against King James, who had promised to treat the Catholic community better than his predecessors Mary, Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I, under whom Catholicism had been penalised and marginalised.

After failing to keep his promise of greater religious tolerance to the Catholic community, the group led by Catesby decided to strike, but with the discovery of the plot, strict anti-Catholic legislation was imposed and Guy Fawkes and seven of his fellow plotters were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered.

Events like these mark the fact that I have clearly moved country, and that with this comes different traditions, altered celebrations and new events to commemorate and remember. Although a lot is similar, being in the UK rather than in Ireland means for instance that history is scattered with kings and queens who shape history, and that royalty all of a sudden plays a significant part in so many new ways. But for those of us with no belief in the current power of royalty, events like Bonfire Night at least offer a great night out with fantastic views and beautiful displays of fireworks. Like us, many people found their way up to Calton Hill, which offers good views of many of the public firework displays, without the harrowing climb up Arthur’s Seat in the dark.

Looking across the Forth of Firth to Fife, taking in Leith and Granton, turning around to catch glimpses of Duddingston and maybe some of the fireworks in the Meadows, I realise that there is so much to get to know in Edinburgh, but that the vantage points of higher spots like Calton Hill and Arthur’s Seat give you a chance to take it all in before you set out to delve deeper into it. While standing on this neo-classical hill, with Greek and Roman architecture to mark Scotlands role in the Enlightenment, on a cold November night, looking over a city where the black spires and towers of gothic and neo-classical buildings are carved out against a red sky, where monuments and mountains dominate the skyline, and where you can feel the city plummet from the precipices, with buildings shooting up like rockets and the ridges of the hills in and around it shape the landscape and winding roads, you tend to forget the people who have forged history, royal or not, and for a while you can see only the city of Edinburgh, majestic in her own way, and celebrated with fireworks, darkness and light.

Two-faced city or multifaceted gem? Both!

Only now is this becoming Scotland Stories, in plural, because although Edinburgh and Scotland are full of stories (more on well known ones later), finding the time to record them is still a challenge. We’ve been almost three weeks in Scotland by now, and according to legend this is already more time than it took for me to feel at home in Ireland – even to pick up an Irish accent, it is said. The accent is still firmly with me, as many more or less officials comment on (“You are sure you do not have dual citizenship?” – Immigration and Passport Services, “You sound more Irish than [the Irish writer]” – Vodafone guy from Northern Ireland, “You don’t sound Norwegian” – Front desk in IPS and three different banks), and maybe the adopted Irishness has also followed me, for as of yet Edinburgh does not strike me as my home town, like Dublin did surprisingly quickly.

Maybe it is the complex nature of Edinburgh that makes it harder to get under the surface of it and feel included, compared to the straight forward welcome from Dublin. Many tell tales of the duality of this city, referring to dichotomies such as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, written by a son of the city, which many refer to as an image of the capital itself: Outwardly and publicly neat, moral and well to do, while secretly harbouring dark fantasies and partaking in activities that do not stand the day of light. Its nicknames may also be said to reflect the same complementary contradictions: Auld Reekie is one, alluding to the smelly and dirty air hovering above the town in older days, a result of Nor Loch (where Princes Street Gardens are today) being a common waste pond for sewage and discards, even serving as a execution place by drowning, as well as the strong wafts from breweries and distilleries in the city, and mining works across the river in Fife. Another nickname, referring to a different side of the city is Athens of the North, telling the story of Edinburgh as a central place in the Scottish Enlightenment, source to many philosophers and writers (David Hume, Adam Smith, Robert Louis Stevenson, James Watt, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns etc) and even with its own Greek temples and pillars, both on Calton Hill and throughout the city as inspiration for many an official building.

Just as striking is the doublet of the Old and New Towns, Old Town consisting of the now touristy strip down on the crag down from the Castle Esplanade, the Royal Mile as it is known, and surrounding streets, closes and gates. This part of the city is characterised by tall buildings, many 15 stories high, long, narrow closes that are but a metre or two wide, many now underground as the centuries have built on top of them as foundations for government buildings and the like, and buildings coloured dark over the centuries by the weather and the activities of Auld Reekie. The New Town on the other side, literally, is a well planned, geometrically organised and mainly Georgian part of town, built with the well to do in mind, who had had enough of the filth and crowds of the Old Town, and escaped the hustle, bustle and sewage of the dark alleys on the south side of the old Nor Loch.

They moved in to wide avenues, fashionable crescents with private gardens, bright and light windows that would see the sun as they were not obscured by clothes lines and next door neighbours across the road so close you could touch them by leaning out your window. And still today the New Town is more fashionable, sober, prim, proper and grandiose, with specialist boutique shops, hunting outfits and organically grown free range fair trade courgettes, while the Old Town is where tourists flock to aaw and coo over kilts, pipers, famous pubs with historical names alluding to the seedy underside of Edinburgh, murderers and body snatchers, where they look for ghosts and quizzical literary Inspectors, go on staggeringly drunk stag and hen parties, mass walking tours and to strip clubs (often also named after the aforementioned murderers), and where they can fill up on baked tatties and deep fried anythings. Personally, I am a big fan of both – in moderation.

And there is a lot of otherness in Edinburgh as well, that these stark contrasts fail to incorporate. The city is a lot more than the black and white, dark and light, old and new that these characterisations suggest. As well as Old Town and New Town, there is Leith, a formerly slightly run down docklands area with social housing and immigrants, now turning this into an advantage, with exotic shops (and the only place I’ve found the necessary Chinese supermarkets), alternative cafes and cool pubs and bars. There is Broughton, Edinburghs gay central, with everything from leather nights to great restaurants, many good second hand bookshops and quirky, organic cafes. There is the Scottish Parliament at the bottom of the Royal Mile, a mashup of architectural traditions and a congregational centre for the BBC around the corner, and across the road from Arthur’s Seat and Holyrood, the Queen’s castle in the Scottish capital. There are big shopping centres plotted around the city catering for every need, real or advertised, there are theatres, film centres, restaurants of the traditional nationality mix, there are all the makings of any European city, and while the dichotomy still stands, it is not the only (two) aspects of a city which can boast of so much more – and being beautiful while it does so. (Pictures to follow...)

Scotland - Sunny side up

After two amazing years in Dublin (intermittently reported on Dublin Diaries), I've decided to follow one of my long-standing dreams; moving to Scotland in the search of rain, happiness and that castle of mine... So on Thursday last week, after a harrowing race to make it to the ferry from Larne, I arrived in Edinburgh with a car packed to the brim, accompanied by the writer behind the massive success 'Moving Abroad - The Irish guide to living and working overseas', and armed with excitement and fond memories of a city that has long been a distant object of my affection. A new life, similar on many fronts to the Irish culture that I've grown to know and love over the last 26 months, and probably on other fronts to the Norwegian way of life I've been used to for quite a bit longer, is awaiting, and I can't wait to start the adventure. And with all possible good intentions, I hope to write about some of it here!

As rain, stone, whisky and castles are some key elements to my expected happiness in my new home country, I had probably better hurry getting on with some of them. First reports to both native and adopted motherlands have been on the subject of lack of rain. Although a lot of people seem to leave Dublin for the weather, for me it was rather on the dry side, and my next chosen destination has been based on the exact notion that I can expect similar tendencies in downpour from what I've been used to in Bergen and in Ireland. But the first days here have been amazingly (and almost disappointingly) sunny, giving me that none-too-common October sunburn usually only connected with more southernly lands. This is making me think that I may have gotten the wrong idea about Scotland (similarly to what many people have told me about prices: things aren't THAT much cheaper here, except maybe for alcohol and rent...). We spent most of Friday and Saturday walking and lounging in the sun, and I've already had lunch outside twice. To be fair, sitting in Princes Street Gardens, sun in your face, fantastic colours on the falling leaves, reading Muriel Sparks and listening to unfamiliar accents is definitely a day worth doing, so I am not complaining! And today, as we were making our way to Leith, the drizzle comfortably started to make an appearance, and with it hopes for more...

Sunny or not: Scotland, I am looking forward to getting to know you properly. Deep fried Mars bars, kilts and Loch Ness - not all there is to you!