#3goodthings [15 September 2013]

In honesty I find some aspects of the summer months on social media difficult, especially seeing those who only appear at these times because they have exotic holiday photos to share (and really how do they have the budget to take adult children with them too?)

Needless to say this now launches straight into pot-kettle-black because a bumper week for #3goodthings is based mainly round a few days holiday in Scotland, including landscape, the Scotsman's family history, local social history and some cake.. #grateful


9 Sep

afternoon tea at cloud 23 (a very late birthdays celebration)
watching the panoramic views while eating
seeing another rainbow


++++


10 Sep (in Scotland)

colourful architecture in Kirkudbright (a town of artist studios and a Scottish St Ives)
Wigtown, place of fifteen second hand book shops (and not much else), home to the Wigtown Book Festival and dwelling of the Scotsman's shoemaking ancestors

stones at Cairn Holy


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11 Sep (in Scotland)

driving past loads of fields of cattle and sheep and finally finding a whole family of 'belties' in a field by themselves (a breed local to Dumfries and Galloway only)

rain on the roof of the Leadhills Miners Library making the roof shine (it is the oldest subscription library in Britain, established in 1741 by a group of local Lead Miners)

Rab, the genial hotel owner and friend you never knew you had


++++


12 Sep (Leadhills, in Scotland)
being able to look inside the beautifully renovated cottage that used to belong to the Scotsman's grandfather (we happened to follow the new owner down the street)

sitting in the peaceful and beautiful cemetery at Leadhills, in untypical weather

exploring the site of an abandoned Lead Mine outside the Leadhills where many of The Scotsman’s ancestors once worked

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13 Sep (in Scotland)

a walk to another abandoned Lead Mine at Woodhead where more of The Scotsman’s ancestors once worked

totally unspoiled landscape on the walk with beautiful natural colours 

seeing an artisan stone mason at work restoring headstones in a churchyard

++++

14 Sep (in Scotland)

chance to take reflective water photos in Douglas

meeting ‘Jean’ who was at school with The Scotsman's father, her body is full of stents but her mind is sharp as a tack

and leaving Leadhills knowing we will return soon

270 gifts

theology of laundry

One of those ordinary weekends playing keepy uppy and tackling the laundry. This morning whilst folding, I remembered a laundry related story from years ago.

When our children were small, as parents Sunday mornings consisted of a manic couple of hours supervising the washing and dressing of two pre-schoolers and one just-in-schooler. At the same time we tried to keep an atmosphere that might maintain the previous hours of holy preparation prior to preaching (him.) Anything else was a bonus (ie that I might actually have my top on the right way round and for extra points a dash of make up approximately applied.) The reality was that our children probably picked up a number of words they shouldn’t have, from me.

One such morning in the middle of it all daughter (who was still too young to speak properly) started yelping once her leggings were on her legs. It soon became clear that this did not fall into the category of a tantrum and that she was actually making a genuine commotion about something on her leg. The leggings came back off and she calmed down eventually. After a time the leggings went back on again and the yelling started even louder and so the leggings came off once more. Only this time it became clear what the problem was.

A wasp dropped onto the floor.

The black and yellow striped blighter had probably crawled into the leggings whilst they were on the washing line the day before and dozed off. It didn’t take too kindly to being woken up and consequently had stung daughter a few times before any of us worked out what was happening. Needless to say by this point she and I were both equally distraught and both stayed home that morning and shared lots of cuddles.

The story has been re-counted a few times since, under the bad mother header. At the time I felt awful that I had not been able to work out sooner what was happening. (And perhaps almost as bad that I had not ironed the leggings and squashed the problem beforehand). Anyway short of installing and monitoring washing line CCTV, BBC TV wildlife-style, I couldn’t have prevented it.

I was reminded just this week too of some painful experiences of recent years when I saw someone at the station. A person whose inability to deal with their own pain meant that pain was meted out to others, including us. And the associated feelings from that time quickly came rushing back, making me realise it’s not all dealt with yet.

We don’t want those we love to be hurt and to be in pain. We don’t want to be wounded by others. And pain inflicted by others sometimes reveals things about ourselves that we really don’t want to see.

All the foresight and micromanaging cannot prevent pain occurring. Sometimes it just happens.

Most of the time we are a work in progress along the way, releasing it to our Father as we go. And that’s OK.

But the peace that follows after we’ve moved through it is usually the best.

#lentphotos - 07 - quiet

crofter's cottage

Sollas, North Uist, Outer Hebrides

I make no apologies for posting a number of photos of North Uist on the blog (there will be more).  

This is a well-known scene on the island which encapsulates the breathtaking peace and quiet of the surroundings and is frequently used in tourist information.  We were fortunate on the day we visited that the weather was favourable and therefore the photo opportunities were good.

Its picture postcard tranquility disguises the fact that real, every-day life is hard for North Uist inhabitants.  The peat stack against the outbuilding will disappear during the winter months; it will be used as fuel for warmth during the harsh winter months.

For the visitor it is a quiet place to wait, to drench thoughts in the expanse and restfulness of the view, to taste saltiness on the wind, with the occasional interjection of a seabird's cry.