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?