The Huguenots of the Cevennes Dr Jane Goodall recorded these Famous Last Words Leith’s John Home led perhaps the most extraordinary of life’s
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I have my suspicions
When the stars are in position
All will be revealed
Pretty isn’t in it, you were lovely then, at one with the moment. You crossed the teeming street in one bronzed glide, disappearing into the fug and babble of the holidaying hordes.
I was sure I wanted to possess you; I was young then, filled with the kind of sureness that doesn’t know anything, but old enough to know that in order to succeed I would have to be something as indefinable as gentle. I ran after you, all the while praying you were lost. When I caught up with you and your green eyes I realised you were not lost. I knew someone would always find you. I found myself stumbling but I said it anyway, “I’ve just arrived here, can you help me find my way? All these years later it seems a slap would have been in order, but you laughed and suggested we started with a hello.
But I know that until then
Unless the stars surrender All will be concealed
Our history, like cheap mascara, runs and ruins in the rain of remembering. The news that came yesterday forces me to construct a memorial postcard: For some reason, on our first date you wanted to meet after dusk down by the worrying harbour. I saw you from a long way off, caught by slivers of moonlight in the beached silhouette of a skeletal upturned hull. Crouched, foetal, like a shadowy marionette; silently calling me home. When we finally kissed it was like being bruised without a blow. Through a hole the size of our lives we dived into the moment like the deepest water – youth will do that for you. Looking back over
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40 years, this writer has no right to assume the position of curator of our shared memories. To have come so far and remembered so little is no kind of achievement.
I always dreamed I’d love you I never dreamed I’d lose you In my dreams I’m always strong
And now you are dead. Cancer. Voodoo acupuncture. The last time I saw you, you were half the age that I am now. Brilliantly, you were naked except for you rings. Our airy pursuit of nothing seems such a waste. We
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never verified our promise. When it ended, we were trapped like fragments in a snowdome, turning in the wind of ourselves. What the hell, we asked questions anyway. All I have left are the usual sweetheart keepsakes, letters from Vienna, valentine cards and scuffed photographs. Everything unravelling. These things too: a lock of hair in a tin that will not open; a diary in you spidery scrawl; a charcoal drawing of a horse. And, of course, your absence. Which will bleed into everything I have left to say or do.
All words in italics belong to Mercury Rev
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It will become apparent in the course of writing this editions’ article why that date is important
I’m going to put my neck out here and assume that most of our readers will have noticed that the giant orange Wotsit currently masquerading as the President of the United States recently published a 20-point peace plan for Gaza. Unsurprisingly, the alleged war criminal currently masquerading as the Prime Minister of Israel, and a chief architect of the carnage which has been unleashed in Gaza, has accepted the proposal in principle.
However, it should be pointed out that while the negotiations between the respected parties involved on all of the points included in the plan are ongoing, Israel has continued to bombard Gaza and kill Palestinians seemingly at will. For the innocent civilians on both sides of this conflict, it would appear that the so-called “peace plan” is, in fact, an ultimatum.
Trump has already stated that unless Hamas accepts all of the terms contained within the plan, and in particular the demand that the organisation plays no further part in control of the region, then, in his own words: “All hell, like no one has ever seen before, will break out against Hamas.” The history of the latest episode in this conflict would have that translated as all Israeli hostages will be killed, and the extermination of an entire population will continue while the rest of the world looks on in abject and helpless horror.
The peace plan includes that Gaza would be temporarily governed by a technocratic, apolitical Palestinian committee which will be known as the “Board of Peace”. This body will be chaired by an individual with
unquestioned knowledge of the history of the conflict, a laser-like focus on the intricacies of Arab-Israeli relations across the centuries, and the diplomatic experience and sensitivity with which to bring all parties to the table in a spirit of empathy and cooperation. Except no it won’t.
The Board of Peace will instead be chaired by President Donald J. Trump who will be joined in his efforts by another alleged war criminal, former UK Prime Minister Tony Blair. Given Blair’s record of falling to his knees whenever he comes faceto-face with powerful Christian fundamentalists (remember his visit to sit on George W. Bush’s lap in the run-up to the war in Iraq), it is not surprising that many of those on the Palestinian side of the table are, if not suspicious, then understandably extremely wary of where the real power in the board will reside.
Another stand-out point in the plan is at point 10. This states that ‘a Trump economic development plan to rebuild and energise Gaza will be created by convening a panel of experts who have helped birth some of the thriving modern miracle cities in the Middle East’. No doubt this will include Jared Kushner, Trump’s son-in-law, who has benefitted from eye-watering donations to his investment firm from Qatar, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates.
himself, Netanyahu and Elon Musk cavorting in the sand has become part of the so-called peace plan. Never mind that there are the mutilated bodies of innocent men, women and children still lying beneath the rubble, there’s money to be made, but let’s not be vulgar, let’s pretend that it’s all about peace.
Trump has been stamping his feet to win the peace prize, see how that work out?
Which brings me to the date at the top of the article. Trump has indicated that “Hamas must move fast” to accept the plan. In days to be precise. It is no coincidence that the Norwegian Nobel Peace Prize committee is due to announce the winner(s) on Friday 10 October. Trump has been moaning and stamping his feet for years now in an attempt to sway a peace prize his way. From his crazed delusion of the stopping of seven “unendable wars” single-handedly (not true), to the fact that his nemesis Barack Obama already has one on his mantelpiece, Trump will likely implode on Friday if his name isn’t announced. Hence his maniacal desire to have his peace plan published, negotiated, and signed-off by all parties to one of the most intractable and devastating conflicts in history in a matter of days.
And so, the repugnant vision that Trump laughingly showed to the world a few months ago of a Las Vegas-style beach resort with
If only the Nobel committee had another award within its gift which would be suitable and entirely appropriate.
How about the Nobel Piece of Shit prize?
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There’s ‘a thing’ inside all of us – and it ain’t as pretty as the contents of the anatomy manual, contends Colin Montgomery
Antarctica, 1982. Those words will mean something to some. Or rather some ‘Thing’ to some. Still lost? No worries. That’ll be white-out blizzard howling around the prefab huts. Next to the downed helicopter. And the fuel tanks. And the smouldering remains of a grotesque chimera, looking like a Findus Crispy Pancake. With ketchup. Gone wrong. None the wiser? Christ, I’m dropping clues like billy-o here lads. But maybe it’s apt if my references remain opaque, my motives stay camouflaged, and my true self… is hidden. That’s The Thing in a nutshell; a (literally) monstrous imposter concealing itself, and its nefarious alien self, inside an ostensibly friendly and familiar host. Can I get an ‘Eek!’?
Such was the wonder of John’s Carpenter’s 1982 reboot of Howard Hawks’ paranoiac Cold War horror The Thing from Another World, from 1953. Both based on John W. Campbell’s much-earlier sci-fi novella, Who Goes There? – but it was Carpenter who, via an SFX tour de force at the time, brought the idea of ‘The Thing’ hiding inside to life…
It is the chilling tale of the shapeshifter; the imitator; the lethal cuckoo in the nest. But unlike nature’s fat feathery gate crasher, hoovering up life-giving parental attentions at the expense of some poor, shunned baby bird - incongruous to us, yet not the brood tender – The Thing’s gift for murderous mimicry was way ahead on the sneak-o-meter.
In other words, you couldn’t tell where the monster was hiding. Leading us to conclude that it could be inside any of us. And in a way, in these troubled times, I guess that holds true. You just can’t tell what’s going on inside people’s heads. What stirs their souls. What axe they grind. And what ugly outburst lies deep within. It’s potentially in all of us.
Most disturbing of all, like the movie,
Robin Bottin’s creation for The Thing
The smouldering remains of a grotesque chimera, looking like a Findus Crispy Pancake
there are often few tell-tale outward signs. Quite the opposite in fact. False flags abound, in that some would have it that their politics, proclivities and personal ethos insulate them from accusations of menace – rooted as they are in positions deemed progressive or liberal and on ‘the right side of history’.
Sadly, that’s not always the case. Indeed, I’d go as far as saying it’s almost never the case. Scratch the surface of even the most enlightened citizen and I suspect that – lurking under all that virtue are a few seeds of prejudice, hatred, and division. Worse still, the kind of division it’s OK to indulge because er… something something politics.
Others are easier to spot. They wave flags. They hold banners. They come out with half-truths (at best) and outright lies (at worst) that bear no resemblance to reality, faces twisted into grotesque masks of hatred that even The Thing’s SFX maestro, Rob Bottin – a genius btw – couldn’t rustle up. Yet otherwise, ordinary faces, leading ordinary lives.
That’s the hardest part of this battle. That the ‘Thing’ inside is not only growing, but that it’s turning ordinary folks into things they are not – and setting us all against each other. No one is immune. And there’s no blood test to flush out the threat (a most memorable
scene in the movie – both completely terrifying and darkly hilarious in equal measure).
No silver bullet then. But in the face of this Thing, maybe a steely selfexamination from all of us is the order of the day. And if you don’t know what introspection means, you need to take a good, long, hard look at yourself. I include myself in that ordinance btw. Christ, some days, my internal monologue goes beyond Meldrewism to uglier places.
Does it mean going all ‘I’d like to teach the world to sing’? Not for a second. We are who we are. And kneeling in front of some anointed ideological God, which is often itself masquerading as something it’s not, only breeds resentment – and feed the beast. But at the very least, whether liberal or conservative or whatever, we should reject hatred.
To clarify, not the common or garden hatred that’s part of the human condition. “I hate when it’s pissing down”. Or “I hate the taste of Dandelion and Burdock”. Or “I hate it when a car alarm goes off at fecking 9am on a Sunday”.
No, I mean the hatred that will eventually consume all of us.
Like The Thing did all those years ago.
In Antarctica, 1982.
What’s the opposite of Artificial Intelligence? That’s NI
Or Natural Intelligence. What AI overlooks and what we all overlook in our haste to make our lives easier, is that AI is not us. We are natural, we have natural intelligence. Why are we so eager to embrace the dumbification of our own selves?
A current mental health crisis is ChatGPT induced psychosis. Oh wow. What have we done to ourselves? When I studied science fiction for an English Literature degree in the 90’s it wasn’t meant to be a blueprint for the future. The fictional scenario described in Orwell’s 1984 wasn’t meant to be an instruction manual. Perhaps the very act of story-telling a future dystopia makes it unfold before our very eyes. Or the fact that humans are inherently greedy and stupid and we’re all doomed anyhow.
Phew, got that out of the way early. My point is that we’re currently being distracted by easy shiny things on our phones and forgetting the simple joys of being human. For despite all the horrors in the world, there is joy. It is acceptable to be happy, no matter what social media tells you.
A pivotal point in my menopausal musings was figuring out things that make me happy. They’re the simplest, most fleeting moments, easily overlooked if distracted or stressed. To ascertain the essence of simple pleasures I thought back to when I was a youngster and my passions then. That was riding my bike, making food for myself after cycling, and drinking bucketloads of mint tea. I’m not sure why, but the mint plant has always made me happy.
Maybe it was one of the first plants I grew, and subsequently harvested. It is the best starter plant for novices as it’s hard to stop when it gets growing. It’s also diseaseresistant, has a long flowering period and is beloved by bees. So mint makes me happy. There’s no way AI could figure that out for me, or even provide me with mint. Having had my minty epiphany in 2020, I have been growing it and producing mint tea ever since (and avoiding reading sci-fi). Pure Leith mint tea is delivered by bike – a double win.
cycle map to find the quiet streets. I love a good map. A proper-fold out map that you have to learn how to refold. I urge you to invest in a Spokes map of Edinburgh, you can lay auld reekie out on your kitchen table and plan adventures. Greenspaces are also marked. I like cycling between greenspaces on errands. It takes longer but is more fun. The only thing cycling isn’t good for is the current fashion for very floppy trews. I love baggy pants, but my voluminous trackies are a chaincatching hazard.
Every day you live you make a difference in the world
Riding a bike around Edinburgh makes me happy. It’s one of the reasons I stay in Leith, I can get pretty much anywhere easily. Back streets with little traffic and speed bumps are my favourite. Avoid bus routes using a Spokes
The other day I picked a red chilli off a plant and thought “AI cannae do that. Isn’t this clever?” It is nature that is intelligent, that has its own inherent knowledge. How a seed has all the information to grow into a plant, a chilli plant, and even in Scotland, bear fruit. How cool is that? How birds know when to migrate, the golden ratio that appears everywhere in nature, how wildflowers can spring up in earth disturbed by humans. AI cannae do that.
‘Celebrating nature’ is a seam running through the Andy Goldsworthy Fifty Years exhibition currently on at the National Gallery on the Mound (until 2 November).
Goldsworthy’s art is based on interactions with earth, literally. It’s a wonderful exhibition with many of his pieces reminding us that we are bound to this earth. Book tickets online and go early on a weekday before it gets too busy. You’ll view art that AI cannae do, and hopefully it gets you thinking too.
The late great primatologist Dr Jane Goodall recorded these Famous Last Words, broadcast on Netflix:
“I want you all to understand that each and every one of you has a role to play. You may not know it. You may not find it. But your life matters and you are here for a reason, and I just hope that reason will become apparent as you live your life…
Every single day you live you make a difference in the world and you get to choose the difference you make. I want you to understand that we are part of the natural world, and even today, where the planet is dark, there is still hope. Don’t lose hope.” Nature is amazing and we are part of nature. So, by association, we are amazing. Be strong and follow your passions. Don’t ask AI’s permission. Be brave. But ultimately be yourself. There’s only one of you.
Bluesky: @tracygriffen www.pureleith.com
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Promising new lights, enchanting sounds, and a touch of romance
Festive fans can get a head start on the season as tickets go on sale for one of Scotland’s most popular winter attractions – Christmas at the Botanics
Now in its ninth year, the beloved light trail will once again bring winter magic to the season, transforming the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh into an immersive world of light, colour, and festive cheer.
Last year we welcomed over 92,000 visitors – confirming its status as a must-see festive experience in Scotland’s capital
Running from 20 November to 30 December, this year’s trail will run for 35 nights, featuring three dedicated quiet nights. These offer a more relaxed and accessible
environment for those who prefer a calmer atmosphere, allowing everyone to experience the wonder.
This year’s after-dark spectacle invites visitors to explore both new bespoke installations and returning fan favourites. Among them are the cherished Santa sightings and iconic Christmas Cathedral, which will feature an enchanting new twinkle effect.
New installations for 2025 include:
J Night Birds – featuring a flock of five oversized birds that spread their brilliant neon-lit feathers wide to illuminate the night sky by Michael Young.
J Heart Arch Walk – a tunnel of love made from large LED hearts that set the Christmas mood with a jolly red glow, creating another perfect picture spot on the trail by ArtAV.
J Laser Lights – displaying thousands of slowly rotating coloured laser beams that burst through an atmospheric fog,
this installation brings a truly immersive experience to the trail by Culture Creative.
Each piece has been curated for its visual impact, low-energy design, and environmental sensitivity to the Botanics’ historic surroundings.
Regius Keeper of the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh, Simon Milne said: “Each year, our trail organisers work tirelessly
to transform our Garden into an exciting nocturnal showcase, and this year is no exception. Visitors can experience the Garden from a fresh perspective, discovering new artistic installations and cherished favourites amongst our incredible collection of plants.
“Every ticket sold for Christmas at the Botanics supports our vital work in conservation, research and education, helping us protect the world’s plants for future generations. If you’re looking for outdoor fun with friends and family, join us on the trail and immerse yourself in the festivities while making a difference.”
Tickets for this year’s show are on sale now. With limited slots and popular dates expected to sell out, early booking is strongly advised to avoid disappointment. For further ticket information, pricing, and timings, please visit www. mychristmastrails.co.uk/events/ christmas-at-the-botanics.
Christmas at the Botanics is presented in partnership with the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh and creative producer Culture Creative.
For more details visit www.rbge. org.uk/christmas and follow @ mychristmastrails on Facebook and Instagram.
On the south wall of North and South Leith Parish church lies an easily missed memorial plaque dedicated to a local boy who led perhaps the most extraordinary life any Leither has ever lived. Yet few passersby in the Kirkgate would recognize the name John Home, despite his once being hailed as Scotland’s answer to Shakespeare
Home’s story nearly ended before it began. On a bitter January night in 1746, the 23-year-old stood shivering with fellow prisoners in Doune Castle. Captured at the Battle of Falkirk while fighting
against the Jacobites, they were fearful of being executed the next day. Desperate, the prisoners tore strips from their blankets, fashioned a rope, and escaped down the castle walls. Home made it but another prisoner fell and broke his ankle. Home helped carry his injured companion to safety, evading pursuing Jacobite soldiers before he made his way eventually home to Leith.
John Home was born in Leith in 1722 to a respectable family who lived on Maritime Street. His father served as town clerk, and whilst they were not rich, they had family links to the Earl of Home. Before becoming – briefly – a soldier, Home seemed destined for orthodoxy. After attending Leith Grammar School and Edinburgh University to study divinity, he qualified as a Church of Scotland minister in 1745. Yet his volunteer service against the Jacobites hinted at an unconventional spirit that would define his life.
Not long after his daring escape, John was appointed minister of a church in sleepy Athelstaneford in East Lothian. He found himself torn between duty and passion. By day he served his parish; by night he pursued
poetry and drama, mixing with Edinburgh’s intellectual elite during a period that would become known later as the Scottish Enlightenment.
Home moved in remarkable company. His friends included historian Adam Ferguson, philosopher David Hume (a distant relative), and other luminaries of the Select Society and Poker Club. Hume, arguably the greatest intellect Scotland has ever produced, encouraged Home’s literary ambitions despite the Church’s hostility toward the world of theatre.
Home’s first dramatic work, Agis, based on Plutarch’s narrative, was completed in the late 1740s. However, there was barely any theatrical scene in Scotland so - in 1749 - he travelled to London to offer it to David Garrick, the era’s greatest actor and manager of the Drury Lane Theatre. Garrick’s rejection devastated Home, who went to Shakespeare’s tomb in Westminster Abbey and wrote a poem in pencil upon it, including the lines ‘To this place I come/To ease my bursting bosom at thy tomb’. Nowadays, Leithers tend to deal
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with earth-shattering news in a different way.
But Home was incredibly resilient. Undeterred, he spent five years crafting his masterpiece, a tragedy titled Douglas. Further humiliation awaited him when he travelled once more to London and Garrick rejected this work too, declaring it “totally unfit for the stage”. Despondent, he returned home, but his friends rallied around him. They persuaded him to stage the play at Edinburgh’s only theatre in the Canongate.
However, Home was writing in a very difficult period – with echoes of the ‘Culture Wars’ that exist today. The Church of Scotland learnt that the play was being rehearsed and applied pressure on all those involved to ‘cancel’ Douglas. But Home, and his friends who constituted the vanguard of the Scottish Enlightenment, were determined to proceed, whatever the cost. In the rehearsals, roles were played by John Home himself, and other notable Enlightenment figures including David Hume, Church of Scotland minister Hugh Blair (who played the maid..) and Adam Ferguson (often called the founder of sociology).
The premiere of Douglas on December 14, 1756, marked a watershed moment for Scottish theatre. The audience, swept up in the tragic tale of Lady Randolph and her lost son Young Norval, erupted in patriotic fervour. One enthusiastic theatregoer famously bellowed, “Whaur’s yer Wullie Shakespeare noo?” Testament to Scotland’s pride in its new literary hero.
However, success came at a cost.
The Church of Scotland, viewing theatre as immoral, vindictively pursued anyone connected to the production. Ministers who attended performances faced disciplinary action, and – aware he was about to be prosecuted – Home was forced to resign his ministry in 1757, losing his means of supporting himself. A ‘pamphlet war’ broke out, each side either criticising or supporting the play and John Home.
for John Home. George III reigned over a turbulent time in British history, encompassing the loss of the American Colonies, the French Revolution, and the enormous political and social changes that arose out of the Industrial Revolution. Home and Bute influenced how the king thought and that in turn influenced British history.
It is hard to imagine another
Leither having a similar cultural impact during his own era excepting –Irvine Welsh
The Church’s targeting of John Home, and the notion of artistic independence, backfired spectacularly. Home was friends with Lord Bute, a leading politician who would become the first Scot to serve as Prime Minister. Bute was also incredibly well connected, and a close friend and tutor to the Prince of Wales (later King George III). When Bute learned of Home’s treatment, he appointed the Leither as his private secretary and included him in the Prince’s education as a literary and intellectual mentor.
This was on its own a significant event
This royal connection transformed Home’s life. Garrick and other theatre managers in London no longer dealing with an obscure, failed poet from Scotland, had to take a close friend of Bute and the Prince of Wales, much more seriously. The Covent Garden theatre put on Douglas in 1757 to great acclaim, and Garrick himself acted in a number of Home’s plays at Garrick’s Drury Lane playhouse. Whilst Home achieved success in London with other plays such as The Siege of Aquileia and The Fatal Discovery, it was Douglas that would become a staple of British and foreign theatres in the Englishspeaking world for decades. Its lines “My name is Norval…” were once famous, and when researching the article, I came across an advert in the early 1800s for a performance of Douglas in what was then the only theatre in New York. It is hard to imagine another Leither having a similar cultural impact during his own era excepting – Irvine Welsh.
Living at Bute’s London residence, Home finally achieved financial security after Bute gave him a well-paid honorary office, and George III provided a generous pension. In his free time, Home frequented the British Coffee House in London, mixing with literary figures including Tobias Smollett and Garrick himself (now a close friend).
Despite his London success, he maintained close friendships in Edinburgh, particularly with David Hume. When the great philosopher became seriously ill, John Home accompanied him on a trip to Bath to seek a cure. It failed, and in David Hume’s will, he left his Leither friend a gift of bottles of claret. It was a testament to both that Hume – the atheist – and Home – the former Church of Scotland minister – could overcome their different views on religion and be so close.
After Bute’s retirement, Home’s influence waned. Whilst several of his works had been received well at Drury Lane, a tragedy named Alfred failed with London audiences in 1778, marking the twilight of his writing career. Returning to Scotland in his fifties, and – now a man of leisure with a good pension - he got married and became a gentleman soldier, joining the Midlothian Fencibles. However, his luck had finally run out. He suffered a severe head injury after falling from a horse, and his intellectual capabilities were permanently damaged.
He managed to complete his final work, History of the Rebellion 1745 – a good read given his personal involvement. However, it was dedicated to George III, and was not well received in Scotland. Many felt – rightly – Home went too easy on his friends in the Hanoverian regime. Home moved back to Edinburgh, continuing to mix with his old friends before he died in 1808 at the age of 86.
John Home’s life embodied the Scottish Enlightenment’s spirit: a divinity student turned soldier, and a controversial yet celebrated writer who took on conservative forces that were trying to prevent the modern world as we know it taking shape. He befriended a prime minister and a king, and his greatest achievement wasn’t literary quality but cultural impact. Proving that Scottish writers could succeed independently of London’s approval.
Douglas demonstrated that Scotland possessed its own dramatic voice, inspiring the next generation of Scots to pursue their dreams. For a Leither who began life as a town clerk’s son, Home’s journey in royal circles and his literary success remains extraordinary. So, the next time you pass through Leith kirkyard or Maritime Street, where a plaque marks his former home, remember this remarkable man. Leith’s very own Shakespeare, whose courage and talent opened doors for Scottish literature that remain open today.
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Classic movies are normally thought to be from the golden age of Hollywood, think of Casablanca or Citizen Kane, writes Ken Wilson
Then there is Jaws the summer blockbuster that started it all and made the name of its director Steven Spielberg. It wasn’t blood and gore or even the scary, big-toothed shark –seen on screen only sparingly – that had people on the edge of their seats. It was the unbearable tension.
Jaws (1975) is a marvellously constructed and perfectly cast film, so much so that despite fans knowing when all the jump scares are coming (and what happens at the end) repeat viewings are always enjoyable. Bruce, the rubber shark, was elusive mainly because the mechanism that made him move was so temperamental. The revised and updated Jaws: Memories from Martha’s Vinyard by Matt Taylor (Titan, £60) takes us behind the scenes during the making of the film on location in Massachusetts. It’s a mammoth tome promoted with a riff on the famous line from the film: ‘you’ll need to get a bigger coffee table’. When Taylor was a boy, he had summers on Martha’s Vinyard and first saw Jaws aged seven. “When
There are some nice people in the world. I just don’t happen to be related to any of them
researching the book, I rarely encountered locals who didn’t have scrapbooks or photos they weren’t willing to contribute to the book,” he says adding, “I can’t imagine a more fascinating film production to have documented.”
Another film that’s celebrating its 50th birthday, with a devoted cult following (and shot not far from Martha’s Vinyard) is Grey Gardens a pioneering, fly-on-the-wall documentary by Albert and David Maysles. Inside the fly-blown summer house in exclusive East Hampton (a playground for rich New Yorkers) live Big Eadie (79) and her daughter Little Eadie Bouvier Beale (56), the forgotten aunt and cousin of Jackie Kennedy.
The story of the film (which became a staple of midnight - and student screenings) is told in a reissue of BFI Film Classics: Grey Gardens by Matthew Tinkom (Bloomsbury, £12.99). The Eadies had given up on their life of money amid the Manhattan elite of their youth and seemed to now glory in their eccentricity, pennilessness and fragile mental health.
By the 1970s the women were living in near squalor, the cat-filled house surrounded by an unkempt garden. The Maysles brothers took their 16mm camera into the house to reveal the mother propped up in a detrituscovered bed admiring herself in a hand-mirror. Little Eadie, a natural performer, was shown ceaselessly talking and prancing around in ratty homemade outfits years before the concept of ‘reality TV’.
What riveted audiences was the unapologetic nature of the Beales, whose fortunes had taken a hideous downturn and were now just clinging on, at turns bickering and bubbly. ‘It took nearly two years to edit 72 hours of raw footage into an hour and a half,’ writes Tinkcom. ‘The film derives its affective pull on the viewer by having a carefully orchestrated narrative that builds to an emotionally fraught conversation between mother and daughter about the latter’s sense of imprisonment and the blame she assigns to Big Eadie for her never having married.’
The film was not without its critics. Many saw it as horribly exploitative, the audience invited to laugh at the deluded Beale girls. But others looked deeper and saw it as addressing an almost existential view of the vicissitudes of life, the Beales were the ultimate survivors. The movie also had a morbidly camp aspect, two crazy women playing for the camera as racoons scuttled in the attic. Not for nothing did it have a lasting legacy: there was a follow-up, a TV movie (with Jessica Lange and Drew Barrymore) and even a stage musical. It might have been a tragic tale of thwarted lives but the Beales courageously carry on against the odds. The stoic and philosophical Little Eadie says at one point: “There are some nice people in the world. I just don’t happen to be related to any of them.”
The Story of British Propoganda Films by Scott Anthony (Bloomsbury, £24.99) looks at how the country, through organisations like the GPO Film Unit and the Central Office of Information, promoted itself and its culture and addressed issues of international diplomacy. British propaganda importantly influenced ‘other democratic societies away from the ideological extremes that ravaged Europe in the early 20th century’, writes Anthony. There was also a strong strand of public information films aimed at homegrown audiences. Think of the brilliant, short film Night Mail (1936), a fantastic example of creative British filmmaking.
Bluesky: @kenwilson84.bsky.social
In 1878, a young Robert Louis Stevenson set off from Edinburgh to travel through the wild terrains of southern France with only a donkey for company
His story, delightfully depicted in his book: Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes - is a joyous read. The region he travelled through is now a place of pilgrimage where Stevenson is venerated to this day. This summer, Catherine and I spent two weeks in the village at the heart of the Cevennes where he completed his journey – Saint Jean du Gard. Stevenson’s book is much more than a travelogue. Apart from the endearing picture he paints of his growing bond with the donkey, Modestine, it is his encounters en route that bring this part of France, in those times, into vivid relief.
One of the most striking of these happens in a monastery, early on in his journey, where he, a Scots Presbyterian, finds himself engaged in lively theological debate with the resident monks. Whilst they remain firm in their own relative convictions, both parties come away from this experience with an increased understanding of the other’s perspective. Thereafter, religion and faith weave in and out of the story as much as the landscape and his donkey – but the religion he encounters is much more familiar.
Now I always like looking at
churches on my travels. I like the ornamentation of Catholicism, both the statues and glitter inside, plus their external architectural magnificence. But here in the Cevennes, the churches are not like those I’m used to seeing in France. They are simple and devoid of any ostentation. Then it became clear, just as it did with Stevenson, that this part of France is Protestant, and unlike today’s Scotland, their faith is still very much alive.
Now I have enough knowledge of French history to know that France, like most of Europe, experienced brutal religious wars during and after the Reformation in the 16th and 17th centuries. The French Protestant reformers, who became known as Huguenots, followed the hard-line Calvinist version, as did the Swiss, Dutch, and Scots. By the second half of the 16th century, the Huguenots had become a powerful minority in France with a sympathetic nobility controlling many of the towns and cities across the country.
Then in 1572, a scheduled royal marriage in Paris raised the prospect of a likely Huguenot heir waiting in the wings. The majority Catholic establishment was horrified. Thousands of Huguenots descended on Paris for the marriage celebrations. Three days later on the 24th of August, the Catholic nobility took action. The St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, as it became known, was a blood bath of Huguenots which then quickly spread beyond Paris to towns and cities across France. An estimated 30,000 Huguenots were hacked to pieces in a matter of days.
Understandably, many of those who survived fled in their droves. This was when a new word entered the English language: ‘refugee’; (réfugié in French). London,
with a population of around only half a million at the time, felt overwhelmed by the sudden arrival of nearly 50,000 Huguenots, fleeing for their lives.
Meanwhile, back in France, the sectarian civil war continued, with the weakened Huguenots fighting back with as much vigour as they could muster, until eventually a kind of peace was achieved. Henry of Navarre, the potential Protestant heir to the throne whose marriage in 1572 had been the catalyst for the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, succeeded to the throne as Henry IV in 1589, but only on the condition that he convert to Catholicism. But Henry did not desert the Huguenots. In 1598 he signed off on the Edict of Nantes, which struck a compromise between the warring sides, giving the Protestants freedom to worship with limited civil powers in their strongholds. Nevertheless, state power still lay firmly in the hands of the majority Catholic nobility.
This tenuous accord held until in 1642, when Henry IV’s grandson, the fiercely Catholic Louis XIV, succeeded to the throne, with a determination to make France 100% Catholic again by any means necessary. Faced with a choice of conversion or death, a second wave of Huguenot migration ensued. Around 200,000 of them fled to nearby Protestant countries; most of them to the Netherlands, but a
This was when a new word entered the English language: ‘refugee’; (réfugié in French)
further 50,000 did cross the Channel. By this time Scotland was firmly Calvinist (i.e., Presbyterian), so a small number headed for Edinburgh. They settled in the Cowgate and established a French church in Infirmary Street. The area became known as ‘Little Picardy’ –the region of France whence they fled, with Picardy Place at the top of Leith Walk acting as a reminder to this day.
This marked the end of Protestantism in most of France, but not in the south, particularly the Languedoc and Provence. Since the early years of the reformation, the Huguenots had been strongest in in these regions, partly owing to their proximity to Geneva, the birthplace of Calvinism. Furthermore, the geography of the area, particularly in the Cevennes mountains, made royal authority harder to impose. Faced with persistent and stubborn resistance in the Cevennes region, the king sent in the Dragonnades; soldiers who were billeted in the homes of the Huguenot families to enforce conversion. It didn’t work. The people simply fled to the countryside to worship in the mountains and caves. Then in came a much bigger army of occupation, burning down the villages and hunting them down in the wilds of the countryside. Civil disobedience had failed; it was time to fight back. Between 1702 to 1704 the conflict
in the Cevennes had escalated into a state of war, known ever since as the War of the Camisards. (These Huguenot guerrilla fighters were so named using a local Occitan word for the peasant shirts they wore.) They knew all the nooks and crannies of the wild terrain to their advantage and fought like successful guerrilla resistance movements have done ever since. The death toll and atrocities on both sides were, again, horrific.
But by 1704 Louis XIV’s armies had become heavily committed in other European wars of the time. The army found itself fighting a war on two fronts. The Royalist forces in the Cevennes had been worn down by an enemy more stubborn and committed than them. It was time to negotiate a truce, and the resulting Treaty of Nimes agreed a cease-fire that allowed for amnesties and the withdrawal of royal troops from the Cevennes - lasting long enough until Louis XIV finally died in 1715 when a new nation-wide tolerance was finally acknowledged.
The story of Camisard resistance and the tactics they employed, whilst embedded in the civilian population without any external support, has gone down in history as one of the first example of effective guerrilla warfare. During the Nazi occupation in the Second World War, these traditions inspired the French Resistance in southern France, and after the war French Protestants were particularly acknowledged in both France and Israel for their role in sheltering Jews from the Nazis throughout the entire war.
And finally, back to Stevenson. When he travelled through the area in the late 19th century, he couldn’t help but compare the mindset of the Camisards with that of the Covenanters back in his homeland, both of whom had suffered similar warfare around the same point in their respective histories, and he found the latter wanting….
“Those who took to the hills for conscience’ sake in Scotland had all gloomy and bedevilled thoughts; for once they received God’s comfort they would be twice engaged with Satan; but the Camisards had only bright and supporting visions.”
So, what started as a summer holiday to the south of France resulted in an unexpected rendezvous with one of Edinburgh’s most famous sons, followed by a journey into a bloodthirsty and forgotten corner of French history, via Picardy Place! The blessings of a historically inquisitive mind.
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Or allow me to rephrase the question: what does your heart weigh? The answer, putting aside your emotional state, is about 300 grams
The same as a deck of playing cards, a box of eggs, or a Syrian hamster. And no I’m not looking up the weight of a Syrian hamster’s heart. This isn’t Pets Wins Prizes.
Someone dear to me has had their heart broken and so I’ve been reflecting on such matters: as metaphor, as signifier, as emoji, and as the most crucial and intricate of instruments in our bodily make-up. For what is the heart if not your internal rhythm section? It’s Moon and Entwhistle, it’s Reni and Mani, it’s Sly and Robbie, keeping time, dictating the beat, providing the very pulse of your existence.
There may be 50 ways to leave your lover, as Paul Simon would have it, or 51 if you count Daniel Day-Lewis supposedly ending his relationship with Isabella Rossellini by fax. I’m all for recycling and previously used this line in my first piece of published journalism in the List magazine some 30 years ago, a live review of The Bathers. Now there was a band who understood heartbreak and how to soundtrack the end of an affair. Dry your eyes, mate.
The thing is that life can’t be all hearts and flowers, and those millions of cardiovascular emojis sent across the ether each day don’t necessarily convey romantic sentiment. I was on a train from Perth back to Auld Reekie the other day, pondering what romance means while trying to banish thoughts of strangling the guy across the aisle who was taking several relentlessly
sociopathic minutes to crush a drinks can.
I didn’t actually time it but this torture seemed to last all the way from the Forth Rail Bridge to Jenner’s Depository. It put me in mind of American Psycho more than American Graffiti; the latter a film suffused with romance, from the neon glamour of a Saturday night in small town USA to the use of Del Shannon’s Runaway in the soundtrack and the legendary DJ Wolfman Jack’s midnight radio incantations.
But why not widen the parameters of romance and what gladdens the heart? I propose that in Room 102, the one right opposite Winston Smith’s rat trap, we ask Paul Merton to include: the sight of Jenner’s Depository (a building which whispers almost home); anything by Stevie Smith (poetry, prose, drawings); the Persian cat asleep on a red velvet cushion in a New Town basement seen out of the corner of your eye; the yellowing photograph of a grandfather in his naval uniform circa 1941; the small Japanese toy figure your partner slips into your jacket pocket the morning of a big job interview; and the smell of Boots hair gel which you used many years ago when, oh I don’t know, entertaining thoughts that you were James Dean, or Truman Capote, or Tony Leung Chiu-wai playing the male lead in the beyond cool framing of 1960s Hong Kong (but actually filmed in Bangkok) from In The Mood For Love.
So much for the universal then. I have a question for Marie Antoinette. If you can have your cake (a French Fancy?) and eat it – perhaps Mr Kipling’s least favourite idiom – while being told to eat your heart out, does it follow that
The sight of Jenner’s Depository (a building which whispers almost home)
you can also have your heart and eat it? And is the organ in question a lonely hunter or a caged muscle? Answers on a bloodied postcard please. And you wonder what that old woman always sat in the Place de la Concorde was knitting. Most likely not a bobble hat. But we’re talking heart and not head here. A family member had a heart op many years ago and was in and out of hospital within hours, glugging a pint of Guinness with my brother in a Glasgow pub before the day was out. My own heart has known maladies, more in the emotional sense, while trapesing the corridors of the Edinburgh Royal in the mid-noughties at visiting time for the Neo-Natal Unit, with two of our kids being early arrivals to this party we call life. For one of them that wasn’t enough but it was his liver rather than his heart that secured a further fortnight, this time in the old Sick Kids.
I took to sending emails updating friends on his weight (compared with a bag of sugar, not a Syrian hamster), his colour (so many shades of yellow), and quoting Willie Nelson lyrics (Funny How Time Slips Away). Country musicians sure do know a lot about heartbreak. But this is one romantic story with a happy ending in that said former half bag of sugar has just borrowed the car to take his mates to play golf. And he loves Johnny Cash. Regrettably though, I have no cards or egg box to hand, and a French aristocrat may have lost her head in the telling, but at least no Syrian hamsters were harmed.
Not even by the Persian cat asleep on a red velvet cushion.
Rodger Evans
Write what you know as the saying goes, nobody is quite sure who coined the term. Tom Wheeler sallies forth
It’s commonly attributed to either Mark Twain or Ernest Hemingway, though I’ve no idea what became of them – but it’s become one of the best-known and most hotly debated precepts of creative writing. So I thought I may as well give it a go.
But that begs the question: what do I know exactly? I know a bit about a fair few things, but not all that much about any. When I do understand a subject in more depth than most, that’s usually because it’s so niche as to be virtually unknown. To this day, I could probably name most of the players who featured in my 1985-86 Panini football sticker album. I have yet to find a practical application for this.
Anyway, apart from a handful of things that have somehow tattooed themselves onto my brain – that sticker album again – what I know is necessarily transient. At various
Bluey meets Bluey
A recent episode is essentially a parable of how cricket makes the world a better place
points, I could probably have claimed a decent working knowledge of stock control, food science, corporate risk management or Chaucer. But not all at the same time, and certainly not now – because with neither the incentive nor the enthusiasm to retain that information, it’s slowly but inexorably exited my brain like bathwater down a partially blocked plughole.
So rather than asking myself what I know in general, perhaps I’d be better asking what I know most about right now. And as the parent of a child approaching the age of three, I do at least have a straightforward answer to that question: Bluey.
If you haven’t had to entertain or placate a small child recently, it’s possible you might not appreciate what a colossal deal Bluey has become in only seven years. Last year it was the most-watched TV show in the US, with a total streaming time of 55
billion minutes – or, if you prefer, a little over 100,000 years.
Its merchandising has rapidly caught up with its fellow pre-school behemoth Peppa Pig in terms of UK shelf space, and you’ll struggle to find a playpark without at least one child – possibly ours - clad head to toe in Bluey regalia. Inevitably, a film is in the works.
In short, Bluey ought to represent everything I hate about the corporate world and its cynical monetising of children’s entertainment, to the detriment of children and parents alike. (Exhibit A: Cocomelon. If you know, you know.) But there’s a reason why I feel differently about Bluey: it’s utterly, consistently brilliant.
Bluey creator Joe Brumm might be the ultimate case study in writing what you know. He grew up in Brisbane, where his family owned a blue heeler dog called Bluey, and is married with two daughters. Bluey is set in Brisbane and features a married couple of blue heeler dogs and their two daughters.
Parents love it as much as their kids, because the whole thing is aimed at both generations at once – and not in the panto style of slipping various ‘adult’ jokes, designed to go straight over the children’s heads, into the script. In Bluey, the same jokes are aimed at everyone equally, and the parents learn from the kids as much as the kids do from the parents.
As it became apparent that the show was primed to take over the world, if anything it became even more homespun. Whole episodes are based around uniquely Aussie words like ‘dunny’ and ‘dobbing’, which are never explained. A recent episode is essentially a parable of how cricket makes the world a better place. To reiterate, last year Bluey was the mostwatched show in the United States.
It’s enough to convince me that the saying really does hold true: write what you know. Don’t try to write everything you know, or write it in an entirely realistic way. (After all, much of Bluey may be drawn from Joe Brumm’s own experiences, but importantly, he’s not really a dog.)
But don’t try to write what you don’t know, based on some vague notion of what people want to read. People – young and old – love good writing that captures some sense of shared experience. Bluey does that as well as I’ve seen, and as a result the world now knows what a dunny is.
If someone reading this is suitably inspired, maybe one day we’ll be celebrating a global TV phenomenon featuring a family of Leith-based hamsters and an episode called ‘Cludgie’.
We can but dream.
The west wall with the arched window is the oldest edifice in the village. On September 28th the gates to this hallowed ground were open for the public to visit and hear its fascinating history courtesy of local residents Emma Kemp and Sarah Gale, as part of Edinburgh’s annual Doors Open Day. About 80 to 100 visitors were welcomed throughout the day as a result.
King James IV of Scotland was committed to building a Royal Navy for Scotland, To find craftsmen to help with the construction he turned to the Low Countries of Flanders, France and as far as Spain and Denmark. King James was a pious king, good and wise. He had ascended to the throne after the death — in actual fact, the murder, by rebel barons — of his father, King James III in 1488 following the Battle of Sauchieburn.
It was soon established that the shallow grounds of the water around Leith were inappropriate to build large warships. The king identified links, scrubland and whins about a mile to the west of the port stretching from the Chapel of St Nicholas in Leith up to what we now call Wardie Bay where the sea was deep and suitable for his Royal Dockyard. There were only a few fishermen’s huts here. The land belonged to the Abbey of Holyrood and the Abbot was most happy to exchange these 143 acres for more suitable and fertile land near the Palace of Linlithgow. Devoted to the Church, as was his mother, he funded a sanctuary, the Chapel of St James and the Virgin Mary, in1504 to be built for the workforce. Because of this, the village was originally known as Our Lady’s Port of Grace and even Maryport. The outer walls are still to be seen with the gable ends fairly intact. In official documents, however, it was referred to as Novus Portus de Leith and so New Haven of Leith, or more simply Newhaven as it was soon to become, was founded.
Simple the chapel may have been in style and construction but there
There are 485 recorded burials here
The village was originally known as Our Lady’s Port of Grace and even Maryport
were a number of altars within and the priests tending them needed to be fed. The lands around the simple stone chapel including the land on which St Andrew’s Church (now Alien Rock) stands were used by the monks mainly as a vegetable garden with cattle for milk and beef kept in a nearby field called Holy Blude Acre and now better known as Anchorfield after the Anker Burn which ran into the Forth at this point.
The first recorded burial was in 1505, a French shipwright working on the Great Michael, the famous ship built here in Newhaven Harbour for the Scottish navy and the largest of its age.
After the Reformation, the chapel fell into ruin, although the grounds continued to be used for burials.
Nevertheless, around 1654 the congregation of North Leith Parish Church used it briefly when they were not allowed to use their own church by the occupying Commonwealth (English) forces when the Citadel was being built. In June 1725, the Society of Free Fishermen of Newhaven (the Society) acquired the land and formally asked to use the chapel ruins as a burial ground. The Society, which tradition holds had existed since around 1400, predated the founding of the Royal Dockyard and was one of Scotland’s oldest trade associations, modeled on Flemish guilds.
Jealous of the increasing importance of Newhaven’s Royal Dockyard and its threat to the port of Leith, the burghers
of Edinburgh persuaded King James IV to sell them the feu on the promise that they would continue to look after the village. They then promptly reneged on this commitment following the King’s death at the Battle of Flodden. Thereafter, the Society effectively acted as a town council, collecting dues, rents, and fines, and using the funds to support widows, the elderly, and community needs — including the graveyard.
Between 1805–1810, the Society bought and demolished two derelict fishing cottages to expand the graveyard, building a new stone wall to the west. The graveyard once had a footprint of 7,000 sq ft. However, the graveyard became so full that new burials often disturbed earlier ones. An archaeological dig in 1972 found “jumbled” burials, likely due to remains being moved when the grounds were extended. Eventually, the graveyard closed in 1848 as it became too full, and Newhaven families began using the recently opened Warriston and Rosebank cemeteries.
The Newhaven Heritage Community Gardens Group continue to look after this important part of our history but have ambitions to do more to restore the garden’s attractiveness and tranquillity. If you are happy to help the group in their efforts by helping out with time, or donations. Contact: emmakempTNCC@mail.com
Lawrence Lettice celebrates the centenary of a wild Welshman who had a wayward way with wine, women & words
‘To begin at the beginning…”
Or how about – “Broadsword, calling Danny Boy...”
Those lines are arguably two of the most famous in all of literature, and cinema; originating from the contrasting worlds of Dylan Thomas prose, to the ‘Boys Own’ adventure writings of Alistair MacLean. And first spoken in deep, rich tones by a former coalminers son called Richard Jenkins, who later conquered the entertainment world as...Richard Burton.
I confess that I have always found Richard Burton’s story endlessly fascinating, and down the years, I’ve devoured several books (including his own revelatory self-penned diaries) that chronicled his life and career trajectory: from the humble Welsh valleys, all the way to Hollywood & Broadway superstardom.
A precociously gifted young man with a thirst for knowledge, poetry and literature (not forgetting a vast thirst for alcohol and an equal lust for women) Burton was tutored through his teacher Philip Burton’s mentorship, that would fire up his compulsive passions for the classics, as together they mapped out a future career for this young man of almost Shakespearean proportions.
As he grew older, Burton would often ruminate on how his life was shaped and formed by elements out with his control. From the rugged coal dust deprivations of the Welsh mining town of his birth, to the giddy and gaudy heights of stage and screen fame, Burton cut a swathe through all convention...usually with a strong bottle of liquid close to hand.
One very clever party trick that
Burton had up his sleeve (and one that he utilised to impress the great and the good of Hollywood) was that he could effortlessly recite large chunks of Shakespeare’s Henry V – backwards! This particular skilled feat was just one small example of Burton’s prodigious memory and intellect.
That example gives a brief insight into Burton’s unique gifts and poetic soul that fatalistically carried with it, an almost Faustian foreboding.
So what was that strange, mystifying alchemy that brought a young boy out of dark impoverishment, that eventually guided him towards a life beyond his wildest dreams? Was it a mixture of raw talent, charisma, intelligence, ambition; or does that very question remain partially unanswered?
I guess that many peoples prior knowledge to the life and work of Richard Burton doesn’t stretch any further than the media circus surrounding his passion, notoriety and marriages to Elizabeth Taylor. Their combustible coupling (first ignited on the set of the epic, Cleopatra) captured the public’s unceasing fascination like few others, and defined an era in which the paparazzi probed incessantly into their public and private lives.
Perhaps the one film that magnified their unique drawing power came with the 1966 release of Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf. The two stars bicker, bite, snarl and swear, belittling each other physically and emotionally during the course of the film; whilst also expressing the underlying desire and love they truly felt for one another. Yet, this particular cinematic triumph, would eventually sow the
It was claimed that only Joan Collins and Julie Andrews failed to succumb to his magnetic charms
seeds of their mutual destruction. Burton’s professional jealousy (he would never win an Oscar) towards his wife (fuelled by copious amounts of alcohol) would fester deep within him, with the result that their relationship would never fully recover.
So an emotional collision between The Prince Of Players & The Queen Of Hollywood, was always going to end badly. A volcanic story of two fiery cinematic deities, who loved and hated with equal intensity; amidst the echoing sound of rattling jewellery, the rustling of divorce papers, and the clinking of empty gin and vodka bottles.
Richard Burton was the man who wanted it all, and in many ways, he achieved all that life could give him –yet at a price.
In his prime he could outdrink anyone, earning vast sums of money, living the kind of ostentatious lifestyle most people could only dream of, while romancing and seducing countless women and numerous female co-stars (it was claimed that only Joan Collins and Julie Andrews failed to succumb to his magnetic charms).
Yet, on the other hand, there was another Richard Burton, a quieter more thoughtful and reflective soul, who embraced literature, poetry, reading (he loved nothing more than spending hours within his private library) while yearning to be taken seriously as a writer of note.
Not forgetting that throughout his many years of fame, he was enormously generous and loyal to his family and friends.
He was a true Welshman...and a man who would not yield.
We’ve all seen the signs: Try praying. Now I’m all in favour of praying, but this should come with a “how to…” explainer
If you simply run up a list of woes in the world and expect God to fix them, prepare to be disappointed. A man prayed fervently every week that he would win the lottery. After a while he had a message from God: “Meet me halfway. Buy a ticket.”
There are basically two forms of prayer in the Christian tradition. One is to pray for a better world. The best intention is to try and see things from perspectives other than our own – a God’s-eye view, you might say.
Then the challenge is to make yourself part of the solution.
The other form is to approach God, in humility and vulnerability. Part of the formula is to ask for forgiveness for “the things we have done which we should not have done, and for the things we have left undone which we should have done”.
We’re not as wonderful as we like to think, and a wee bit of humility is in order. We’re never going to be perfect, but we can aim a bit higher. Honesty is rewarded with comfort and courage.
In both forms of prayer, we end up with some homework.
I go to church every week, and I have grown to love the traditions and the community. The stones talk. I can’t help but be aware of the generations of people pouring out their hearts in this place. We’re all doing our best, in our day.
But the Church of Scotland can get a bit wordy. When I used to take seafarers to Catholic Mass on Sunday evenings, I found the set liturgy, carried by music, profoundly universal, inclusive, and reassuring.
Churches are in a marketplace. You should shop around. Wherever you end up, you’re engaging in an hour or so of being morally serious, with no interruptions for ads. And you’re surrounded by people going the same way. Sharing with others, being willing to be led, is more productive than trying to do it alone.
But there are gaps in the market. Outside the traditional churches, making a very welcome and timely arrival, Junction 42 and Connec+ use Ebenezer church on Bangor Road, on
old AECC tower now King’s Church
Tuesday evenings. J42 (the name comes from the book of Isaiah chapter 42 verses 6,7 –check it out) is formed to help folk leaving prison to rehabilitate into the community.
There’s a strong association with various forms of addiction, which is where Connec+ comes in. The element in common is STIGMA. To lose your autonomy, whether in prison or in addiction, or homelessness, is frightening, lonely, shameful.
The format for a typical evening is: talk, eat, testimonies, prayers and singing. Open-heartedness is on full display.
On the first evening in Leith a lady was brought out to the front and given a bouquet of flowers to mark four years clean. Stigma was left behind; success and triumph were celebrated.
I went to Aberdeen recently, and maybe I saw a glimpse of the future. Look up kingschurchaberdeen.com
Under the umbrella The Assembly of God, again it doesn’t fit into the traditional denominations. It’s not my style, but there’s nothing in there I don’t support. They bought the Aberdeen Conference Centre, with its huge auditorium taking around 1,500 folk on a Sunday morning, with room to grow. They have a lot of generous-sized activity rooms, for a wide variety of community and church functions.
Willing to be led, is more productive than trying to do it alone
These are people who have truly been outcasts, in the depths of despair, spat on, despised. By acknowledging their vulnerability and their wounds in the safe space on a Tuesday night, they powerfully uphold and encourage each other.
We who haven’t been there could learn something about truly caring for others.
With Leith a hotspot in Scotland’s shamefully high illicit drugs-related death rate, this initiative is well worthy of support.
Going to church is an exercise in discovering our inner selves, our vulnerabilities and our potential, and how we relate to others and things beyond us. We are comforted, encouraged, and challenged, as we stand and need it. It’s a lifelong journey.
PS: None of the above is to put down any other religion. All religions have wisdom and goodness, and none should claim exclusive righteousness or superiority over others.
PPS: The late Charlie Kirk weaponised the Bible in a wholly un-Christian way. Jesus would denounce him.
Abandoned and deteriorating spaces can add to the sense of a public domain in decline, even a city in decline, says Charlie Ellis
Across Edinburgh, from Harrison Park to Powderhall and Leith Links, disused council bowling greens pose the question: how can these fantastic assets be repurposed for public benefit?
The city is fortunate to have many successful community-led projects breathing life into underused spots, such as the Lochend Secret Garden and the Sunshine on Leith Community Garden (a flourishing little gem of a place, hidden behind tenements off Dickson Street). These initiatives enrich community life and green the city. Disused bowling greens are also being transformed; for instance, those in Victoria Park are gradually becoming community allotments through the council’s Thriving Green Spaces initiative.
There’s hope that the abandoned Regent Road Bowling Green in Abbeyhill can follow suit. While the site’s buildings are in considerable disrepair and may have to be replaced, the main asset is the sheltered bowling green itself. Surrounded by thick vegetation and home to a thriving rabbit population (any plan must be “rabbit friendly”), the green offers magnificent views over Holyrood Palace towards Arthur’s Seat. It’s arguably one of Europe’s finest urban panoramas.
The Regent Community Bowling Club closed primarily due to the impact of the COVID-19 pandemic. This situation reflects a broader trend affecting bowling clubs in Edinburgh and beyond, as factors like declining membership and increasing maintenance costs have also
Abandoned bowling green at Regent Park
Development Trusts Association Scotland to formalize their structure and determine the next stages..
An amazing opportunity, a place where the community foster creative ideas
contributed to the closure or underuse of various greens.
The green’s stewardship reverted to the council after the Covid-19 pandemic, prompting discussions about revitalisation. Now, two locals, Kat Chisholm (of Abbeyhill Colony of Artists) and Tom Adams, have taken on the lease as “guardians for the community” on a rolling month-tomonth basis.
After two years of negotiations, Kat and Tom are finally taking concrete steps to secure the green’s future. To obtain a longer-term lease and unlock vital funding, they must now demonstrate to the Council strong community backing and a capable management team. As Kat put it, it’s time to “get the business side done too.” While it’s “lovely to talk about flowers,” they must show they “mean business” by presenting clear evidence of genuine community engagement and a properly constituted organising committee. Essentially, the group must “get independent” and “take ownership.” Following a well-attended open day in June and an online meeting in September, an initial four-person Regent Road Community Green committee has emerged. This interim committee is currently consulting with the
Kat and Tom are aware the council would consider a commercial venture, such as the Herringbone Restaurant model that occupies the former public toilets in Royal Terrace Gardens. Many view such projects as denuding the public domain. The most controversial example, the (failed) attempt to turn the former Royal High School into a hotel, illustrated the pressure on the council to seek large financial injections by offloading public assets. The interim committee’s challenge is to prove that the emerging project is financially viable alongside community use. If this is established, the council would be content to “bow out and leave us to it.” A successful model is the Leith Community Croft, which transformed abandoned tennis courts and restored an old sports pavilion into a superb community space and café. This café generates essential income that supports the croft’s operations, demonstrating a sustainable social enterprise model that the Regent Road project could emulate. Securing a longterm future means creating a plan that is not only beneficial to the public but also robust and self-sustaining.
Tom sees the site as an “amazing opportunity”; a “place where the community can gather and be creative,” a “place of healing,” and a contribution to “greening the neighbourhood.” His vision includes a central sculpture, with the green divided into four quarters for different uses (e.g., veg plots, a play area).
One idea to “keep the bowling vibe going” is to dedicate a quarter to pétanque, a growing sport that is easier to maintain than a manicured bowling green, using hard dirt or gravel. Keeping the bowling vibe going. Examples in the city include Ferranti Bowling Club in Inverleith Park. This would be an evolution of use, rather than a radical departure.
Those interested in getting involved with Regent Road Community Green can contact the project at: regentroadcommunitygreen@gmail. com.
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