Ambivalence.

A few hundred yards aways from our house, a new railway station is being built. A rail link, closed in the late 1950s, is being reinstated, affording us direct access to both Glasgow and Edinburgh by train.
The work is really intensive right now,with the construction of the station, the car park, and all the attendant bits of concrete laying that seem to go on with such projects. James is in his element and he likes nothing better than to go to the farm road adjacent to the site and watch the diggers do their stuff - and there are some seriously heavy duty pieces of equipment trundling up and down our road. A sign informs us that the first train will depart in December 2010.

Now - this is a good thing. It's what we all want - a decent public transport infrastructure - taking polluting cars off the road - connecting communities, more opportunity for all. Not to mention the knock on effect of elevating the house prices in the area. We will live within easy walking distance of the station, 20 -30 minutes until we are in the centre of either of our two major cities.
But... we are losing too. The redundant railway had become a much used and loved cycle path and walkway. A wildlife haven and just a place to escape. Setting out for a walk we would decide which way to go - east or west - always reminding me of Proust's dilemma - the Guermantes way or the way by Swann's. West was always better in the summer and winter - the territory was open, the skies huge, and the verges covered in wildflowers. Spring and autumn was the time to head east. Long sweeping avenues of beech trees, fields of baby lambs, or silent sheep, blackberries and rosehips were the treasures to be found there. Artworks were dotted along the way, - it was sad to see one of them dumped and broken at the back of the site huts.
I walked here most days during my pregnancy with James - normally towards the west, as my favourite tree was there, and I would touch it's trunk and talk to it.  The morning that I discovered I was expecting a baby and the age of 45, I met 4 magpies on the trail. My husband's tree was on the eastern path - an old beech that looked like Treebeard from the Lord of the Rings. Walking with James - either in the buggy, or the sling was an almost daily pleasure. We threw autumn leaves in the air and tried to catch them, played inside the hollow tree, listened to the music of thewind rattling the broom seedpods, watched a hairy caterpillar cross the path in front of us, and played for hours in a flooded low lying section. All this is gone, save the memories; the trees cut down, the water drained, the wildlife concreted over. Our paradise is being paved.
Network rail have pledged to reinstate the cycle path, but it will run alongside the railway. Until then we have to find other places to wander. I know I will use the new rail service, and I will say how great it is to be so close to the station, two great cities on my doorstep - and it will be. But it won't compare with sunny days spent splashing around with a laughing boy..

Book Sharing Monday - Yes I know it's Saturday!

I saw this wonderful idea over on Mama4's blog. Every Monday, participans will post about a children's book they have been reading or have enjoyed - sharing a favourite lines or two. I love this idea so much - there is nothing I like better than talking about books, and this will make sure I update at least weekly.
I have been buying books for my children for (gulp) almost 30 years now, so I have a few to choose from. I have always been extremely fussy about the books I choose and can easily spend hours in the children's section selecting and rejecting. I find that there are very few gems and a lot of dross in most mainstream bookshops nowadays and tend to go on recommendations. I hate 'lift the flap' type books, or books with bits that fall out, and TV character books don't even make the list. I hope you will enjoy my choices.
James, who is only 2, does not yet have a wide range in his literary choices - preferring the same book over and over again for several days, until I can manage to bring another one to his attention - and even then 4 of his very favourites don't actually have any words. With that in mind, I will, more often than not, select one that I have enjoyed with my older children and probably not the Stephanie Meyer series that my 19 year old daughter is currently reading!
Please visit Alex's lovely blog and join in and see the list of other bloggers taking part. Oh - and visit here on Mondays.

Auld claes and parritch

So - after the heady excitement of coming home from hospital with James - the flurry of visitors from near and far, the joy of sleeping in my own bed, making a cup of tea whenever I want, cooking a huge Sunday dinner for family and friends, and enjoying spending time with my darling husband who had taken some leave from work - it was back to auld claes and parritch today.
This was an expression much quoted by my grandparents after a holiday, or Christmas, or some such gaudy occasion - "Aye - it'll be back to auld claes and parritch the morn'!" -(back to old clothes and porridge tomorrow) Such a typically Scottish expression - don't get carried away with yourself - all good things come to an end.
It was hard to watch John drive off today, leaving James and me alone in the house. The last day we spent at home together was the day of his accident - not one I wanted to remember. Still - there was also a sense of relief that things were getting back to normal. A calm fell over the house and I felt as if I could breathe out after a very long pause. Back to auld claes and parritch at last.
As the familiar words came into my head, I decided that we would indeed start back with a plate of porridge. There are many myths and superstitions about making porridge, but I once heard a radio interview, many years ago with a woman who had just won the World Porridge Making Championship, and she divulged her method, which I have stuck to ever since. The italics are my meddling.
1/2 cup medium oatmeal (I never bother about soaking it overnight or any other faffing round)
1 1/2 cups water. I use a wooden spoon to stir. The traditional spurtle, which is basically a stick, is not big enough to stir properly and to my mind makes the job more difficult.
Bring to the boil, stirring all the time - the oatmeal will start to thicken quite quickly.
when it is boiling add salt to taste, a single grind of the black pepper mill and a pinch of sugar, lower the heat and simmer for 4 minutes (if you don't have a timer wait until the porridge says "Perth") - serve at once. (Don't cook it for a long time or reheat once cooled otherwise it will smell like a wet washing day.)
Serving and eating porridge has similar rules and regulations - particularly if you are aiming at traditional Scottishness. Porridge should be served topped with only a sprinkling of dry meal and a separate bowl of milk for dunking each spoonful into - sugar is never added - "only a Sassenach would do that! " (my grandfather's saying). I am all for tradition, and indeed porridge is very nice served simply like that. I am, however, not averse to putting all sorts of things on my bowl of meal, as and when the inspiration strikes. So, ( sorry Grandpa - hope you're not too dizzy) today we had banana, maple syrup and cream on ours and it was just grand!
I began to muse on references to porridge in literature - as you do. Burns, of course, makes several mentions - most famously in The Cottar's Saturday Night "The halesome parritch, Chief o' Scotia's food", and oatmeal is indirectly lauded in The Address to a Haggis, as one of the main ingredients in that wonderful dish.
My favourite is a strange wee vignette from Neil Gunn's The Green Isle of the Great Deep, where he describes Old Hector and the boy Art eating porridge "The horn spoons being soft, they were able to scrape their plates quietly. Old Hector shoved his plate a few inches from him and inverted the empty bowl over the horn spoon as he did at home. Art did not do this at home, but he did it now and felt the better for it." I just love the image of the old traditions being comforting for the young boy.
Then there is the evocative essay by Robert Louis Stevenson where he describes the imaginary worlds his cousin and himself build over their morning bowl of porridge. "When my cousin and I took our porridge of a morning, we had a device to enliven the course of the meal. He ate his with sugar, and explained it to be a country continually buried under snow. I took mine with milk, and explained it to be a country suffering gradual inundation. You can imagine us exchanging bulletins; how here was an island still unsubmerged, here a valley not yet covered with snow; what inventions were made; how his population lived in cabins on perches and travelled on stilts, and how mine was always in boats; how the interest grew furious, as the last corner of safe ground was cut off on all sides and grew smaller every moment;" (Child's Play. RLS) So - there may be Treasure in every bowl of porridge!
Our very favourite porridge story though has to be Goldilocks and the Three Bears.