Tag Archives: dragon fire

Raised a Roof!


The peoples of old used to be finely aware of the ghosts of the departed that lingered in deserted spaces. Departed meaning just that, of course: not necessarily dead ‘uns. And that was a bit like us at Coldhome for a couple of days after the end of our Work Week, otherwise known as Raising the Roof – which, unbelievably, is already more than a week into the past.

Yes, it was quite strange how we moved disconsolately amongst the secured roof-timbers or picked up offcuts, or gathered lost tools from the floors, and could practically hear with our physical ears snatches of conversations, laughter, short technical dialogues, and of course expressions of the simple wishes of the volunteers – time for coffee? beer? any food? beer? A little more beer?….
Actually, the picture – they are all empties (though not quite all the empties), and exclusively the home-brew empties, ie matched by similar quantities of shop-bought brew – doesn’t to my mind speak of overindulgence when you consider they’re the intake of well over twenty adults over a total of six days’ good-going labour: I took it out of a sense of satisfaction that I could now re-claim my bottles for other brews, as I’m slowly learning the arts of making beer from scratch.

Arty number with Dru

Mealtime shot with the tumbledown shed

I believe there are various pictures of the week on Facebook, so (apart from some pics in a pending “technical” page) I’m just including an arty number with Dru – and a mealtime snapshot with the Tumbledown shed, mainly because it (the shed) reminds me of a decrepit pet (dog? bear? dragon?) presiding benignly over proceedings, and probably not long for this world.

Anyway, we’re over the work, we’re over the excitement of such a large and joyous crowd of people, we’re even getting over the silence and the come-down and the exhaustion and the minor squabbles and the colds and related bugs, and we can look up and say, hey, we’ve got a roof! Or half a roof, rather. Or half a roof on the first of the three buildings that need a roof….. Well, that means we can do it all five times over again. Hooray. That should take another seven to ten years. I hope the crowd will still be young and fit enough. Maybe they’ll have an army of children of their own by then who can be cajoled into a fresh wave of activity.

What can I say? Some time ago CharlieR mooted the idea of a Coldhome Role of Honour, which we were all quite enthusiastic about, at least until someone anxiously mentioned the possibility of forgetting someone, so we all fell into a sombre consideration of Sleeping Beauty and the thirteenth Fairy. One day we’ll risk it. For the moment, and with our memories still fresh, we gratefully salute all who took part: Eileen and Sally and Kevin and Alex and Steve and Sally and Callum and Simon and Ella and Ellie and Bill and Eleanor and Dan and Mark and John and Rosie, not to mention the semi-residents, Abi and Will and Ben and Anna and of course Dru and Rebecca. This tally falls one short of the twenty-three workers that Rachel said had passed through: I fear we shall fall into a hundred-years’ sleep…..

Last night of the work week coincided with Rachel, Annie and me doing a slot at a ceilidh in Huntly which we’d agreed to earlier in the year and all felt we could have happily done without just on that particular evening. However – probably not unusually for such events – the original twenty minutes required was slashed to ten at the last minute, which was probably quite a relief, though it meant that the last-minute scramble to re-arrange our set meant we finished up well short even of the ten minutes, and as none of us were in very talkative mode we didn’t even fill up the time with introductions and bad jokes. We managed to rise above throat infections (and, as I say, exhaustion) for just long enough to thump out our three non-solo numbers and decided that we were rather glad of PA system, too, though I do believe we “popped” more than you’re supposed to, being but wet-eared amateurs in front of a mike.

The pressure, man, the pressure – isn’t over yet, as I (and Paul K, though separately) unwisely agreed to parade ourselves as Authors at two events during the Huntly Hairst celebrations. Why unwisely? Well, in my case when poor Fiona Wilson was trying to get me to write something down about what I’d be talking about so she could get it into the events catalogue (programme? notes? – doofer: doofers always do) I inadvertently jotted something down about having travelled in many foreign countries and, for want of a better thing to do, sent it to her. So now I’m in trouble. I never go anywhere foreign, or indeed anywhere at all, unless Annie drags me, and then only if there’s a bar and a hot bath nearby. Hell, Huntly seems like a metropolis. While I was waiting for our chips in the Dragon Garden (ha, maybe I do go to some exotic places) after the ceilidh the other night, I was accosted by a chap who seemed to be having some problems with his balance and said he liked my hairdo – well, he addressed me as Snow-white and started looking around for my seven dwarves, to his own great hilarity. That’s the sort of thing that happens in a metropolis, though, isn’t it. Anyway, Saturday coming will just have to see me telling a heap of lies and maybe I shall manage to preserve a shred of dignity. My ancient mentor Jock Paton used to say hawf the lees I tell arena true; and I think I might try and confuse them with something like that. Maddy says I shall also have to sign at least a hundred copies of Dragon Fire for sale.

Don’t know about Paul though: he’s at another venue, presumably talking about Gaia’s Children. They didn’t ask him if he would be requiring a crêche, which makes me really wish I’d spent more time writing adult stuff.

I’ve just realised: Paul – he was the twenty-third fairy…. Now I really am for it.

By the way: last blog I included a couple of pictures by CharlieR; I couldn’t download them, it seemed, without entering the unholy portals of Facebook, and by the time I’d decided the whole kerfuffle of registering etc wasn’t worth it and had gone off to retrieve a copy mechanically, it was too late: I was on, I was caught, a worm wriggling on a hook. So thank you everyone who sent Friend requests: my reluctance to get on and take you all to my bosom is not a personal reluctance but a reluctance about finally confronting the Beast 666, Ahriman-the-Great, He-who-rises-in-the-last-Days (alias Facebook), at my own writing-desk. I’ll get round to it, I know I must, it is my Destiny…..

One last PS. Got your funny little hammer, Mark. Also there’s a natty little black sports glove left behind: any claimants?

A solution for the accommodation Challenge. The erecting and fabricating of the yurt was Abby and Will’s work. A bit of a Tardis experience, a canvas yurt space – definitely one of those more-than-the-sum-of-its-parts phenomena, a satisfying combination of shape and light and space which makes me prepared (almost) to revise my opinion of camping.


Filed under Coldhome

January 21

Anna has put this page together for me. When I first clicked on it and saw the banner – the same one that’s up at the top of the screen here – my first thought was, “my that’s bright”. Then, after a couple of seconds’ gazing, “Hey – that’s Coldhome!” It was the little rowan tree on the far right that did it. I didn’t recognise the rest because of all the trees. Anna must have snapped it herself on some occasion, choosing a spot that made it all look quite tree-ish. The picture’s nice and fuzzy of course, which contributes to this rather idealised view. The roofs of the buildings – why, they could be lovely old red pantiles, really, couldn’t they. You wouldn’t know it’s actually rusty corrugated iron, and the buildings are, well – sheds, what else can you call them. Not quite as tumbledown as they were eight years ago (apart from the Tumbledown Shed, which is even more tumbledown) but pretty tumbledown for all that. And it’s hard to imagine the grim light of November through February, the bareness of landscape, bareness of the wind, the bareness of grey sky, which makes such an indelible impression on the spirit.

Well, it’s good to think about it in a fuzzy idealised light, now and again. Maybe we’ll get round to the pantiles some day.

I like “Coldhome Project” too: that sounds very purposeful. I can’t actually remember what the Coldhome Project is, or was; though I do remember that we all four adults here made earnest resolutions to keep up our own record of things as they progressed. I did, for a bit. I think Rachel might have done as well. But – too busy; too tired; too something; just like most of the rest of humanity, I suppose.

So, I needed Anna to slap me around a bit. “Do you want to sell books? – Yes, I know you really just want to share them; but do you or do you not need some income?” … Anna is actually politer to her revered Parent than this suggests; let’s call it poetic licence – but that was the gist of it. I don’t want to sell books as in Hard Sell. Poetry I’ve never wanted to sell, stories I’ve never minded so much … “Let’s not get bogged down in the detail, Father. You a) want to sell some books, b) share some other stuff, including a rather belatedly-begun record of the Coldhome Project -” (Whatever that is, or was….) “Well, put (a) together with (b) and what do you have? A blog, Father, a blog.”

So, this is that blog. It should be rather a lot about the Coldhome Project (probably) and related stuff, but seeing how some of the related stuff is me, and I write stories (and poems, and songs, and tell stories), it seems reasonable to also give some instructions as to buying some of this output – not poetry, of course, nobody wants to buy poetry, and as I say I don’t want to sell it anyway, so that’s something that will be entirely for sharing; and to be honest, if I can’t sell my stories I’ll probably finish up sharing them as well – why? Because they’ve mouldered in damp boxes for long enough, and I believe in freedom for the captives. I’ve still got 400 copies of the “Dragon Fire” trilogy stored up, so they’ll be for sale. Completely fresh and unmouldy, them. I dare say doughty old Dragon Fire will be going out of print one of these days. Under the good offices of Walker Books it’s been selling quietly away for the last twenty years, but it’s got to be coming to the end of its present incarnation. Marilyn says we should think about a re-launch.

I’m also determined to do e-books, or something of the kind (ha! grimly! Mention anything digital and I always strike the same pose of grim determination), of the half-dozen or so stories that never got published, and perhaps also some of the ones that went out of print; while Ben has promised to do his own princely handmade versions of the same if demand arises – and he won’t do that for nothing, not if he’s got any sense. And I’ve also got some little stories which I’d like to share by audio-link (when I find out how to do that), and several shelves of poems which ought to be allowed to see the light of day so I can at least point to them and say: look! I wasn’t entirely frittering the last few decades away…

Anyway, instructions of one kind or another will follow, when I work out how to do them, or get Anna to do them for me, and the these goodies will be freely (or not so freely) available.

But back to Coldhome; because Coldhome is always in the forefront of my attention, whatever chances I get to creep up to my little hovel and Create. I need to put the record a bit straight already, because I really don’t want this to be my weekly let-me-moan-about-our-harsh-existence slot. I have on occasion seen Coldhome in real life (nearly) as bright as the banner (and frequently as fuzzy: but that’s another story); and I certainly don’t want to be anywhere else than here, even though I’d always dreamed of settling somewhere where there were woods and big rocks and running water. We have none of that kind of nonsense here: just fields, fences, more fields, farms, the odd grudging little strip of woodland more for shelter-belts than anything else or for beleaguered game to crouch in…. But Coldhome is our little island; our shelter and stronghold.

That said, there is something odd about the temperature at Coldhome. Either the thermometers are wrong, or else things happen at higher temperatures – like freezings, and wind-chill, and such-like aspects of cold.. One morning the car thermometer registered -8C as we left the homestead, and as we drove down to Inverurie we watched it plummet to -22, but I swear when we got out in the town it felt exactly the same as it had at home.

When Lairdie (he’s the chap who sold us the property) came round, a few years back, to introduce himself, we asked him, so what does Coldhome actually mean, do you know? After all, names change, they get corrupted. We once stayed at a place called Bellyhack, which turned out to be an anglicization of the perfectly mundane Gaelic name Baile’ Ach). “Home” could mean “holme”; “cold” could mean – well, something different. Lairdie responded with a surprised look and, “Coldhome? It means exactly what it says”, followed with some rigmarole about the way the wind comes round a particular hill and up that part of the glen and I can’t remember what else, but the upshot of it all is: Coldhome means you’re living in a cold home, maties: a preternaturally cold place indeed. When you’re at home here, you’re cold. There was talk, among us and the wider family, of changing the name to help us (and visitors) feel warmer, but no-one could think of any decent alternative. Actually, I’m delighted about that. Coldhome sounds a bit lofty, a bit uncompromising. I think of the House of Sleep in Lilith, where the very idea of being comforted by warmth becomes absurd. Maybe George MacDonald happened upon Coldhome in the course of one of his youthful rambles.

When we arrived here – the first time must have been eight years ago now – there was one tree on Coldhome’s four and a half acres: a gean possibly, long-dead, and dumped on top of a heap of the bulldozed remains of a shanty-town of old concrete buildings that once spread around the main complex. We never burned it, perhaps due to sentimental considerations; and it lies in the pond now, and the kids call it Smoky.

There’s lots of trees here now – over a thousand, I suppose, but they’re all little. Anna’s picture cunningly takes in some of the big trees in our neighbour’s field and then manages to make a little copse out of what is actually a line of apple trees that runs up the north side of the property, once again in the neighbouring field. These apples are actually quite remarkable trees: there are thirty-two of them in the line beside us and then another line meeting it runs along the roadside. We call them crabs, but I don’t think all of them are native types: the fruit vary greatly in size, colour and sweetness, though all of them have that paint-stripper quality in the mouth. I and the kids have acquired quite a taste for them, once you get past the face-scrunching stage. They must be at least a century and a half old, and have an air of craggy, weatherbeaten venerableness. A plentiful crop falls into our field most years, and we’re getting sophisticated in our brewing experiments. Well, sophisticated-ish. Being apples of wisdom, it wouldn’t be right to make unwarranted claims for them, or ourselves.

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