Campbeltown was my first official ‘residence’ of the tour, a three-day camp by the loch at Craighill with a delightful prospect of the Campbeltown Bay & beyond. In all I spent three nights & two full days there, & left with a general feeling of warmth for the area, especially the Southend, a potential future residence for one of my Western Scotland loving avatars.
I last left this blog in the local library, after which I made my camp for a wee sing-song in the fading dark, & finish’d off with listening to the footy on the radio. Burnley were knock’d out of the Carabao Cup, alas, by League One Cardiff – but life, & the football must go on!
Wednesday I decided not to heave me & my heavy Bedouin camp to the Southend, but again trust the universe not to have my stuff ransack’d, & set off on a smashing cycle round the South End. Starting off in town briefly for breakfast, I continued the 9 miles or so along the main road, thro’ pure agricultural countryside.
This is a really tranquil part of Britain, luscious greens, dramatically angl’d hills, & hardly a passing car. It was so peaceful, that a new sonnet began to enter my mind on the road, premonoting my coming historical visit.
The Southend open’d up, a great swathe of open-ness, girt by the sea, with Ireland’s details visible across the waters. My destination was Dunaverty, a place which I have associated with one of King Arthur’s obscure military campaigns. In an old Welsh text, I believe that Dunaverty appears as Verthach, part of a trio of caers attack’d by Arthur at the same time.
I have also been in Europe, and in Africa, and in the islands of Corsica, and in Caer Brythwch, and Brythach, and Verthach
Brythwych would be Port Brittas, now Ballycastle, Northern Ireland; & Brythach would be Brodick, on the Isle of Arran, all only a few miles from Dunaverty. The 12th century historian, Geoffrey of Monmouth, has Arthur fighting at Loch Lomond, follow’ed by a seabourne attack on Ireland the following year. From Loch Lomond, via the Clyde, he would have passed Brodick, Dunaverty & Port Brittas, reinforcing my supposition. Anyway, my sonnet reads;
—–
In Arthur’s time when he was flesh & blood
Not chinese whisper phantasie denied
He glided down the Clyde’s wide sliding flood
with sixty ships by fighters fortified
Berths firstly upon Arran’s sandy shores
There put the Scotti down & took the town
Then onwards ever onwards went his wars
The dirty curses of an eartjly crown
Cycle the Southend to Dunaverty
A rock once known as Verthach, so Im told
Whose castle stood atop a rockface sturdy
Defiant to the bravest of the bold
Except for Arthur when he stormed the keep
He put its keepers to a dreamless sleep
——-
Cycling thro’ the golf course, I visited the steep, jaggy rock where Verthach & its future fortified rebuilds stood, I had a nice chat with the renovated owner of the old lifeboat house there, who told me it was originally built by the parents of a man who’d drown’d fishing in West Loch Tarbet, so other families would perhaps not endure their own grief. I also had a chat with another local, who told me about a massacre where, during the Covenantor wars, 300 MacDonalds holed up in the castle were slaughter’d after surrendering – far more than at Glen Coe, but hardly remember’d today.
I left the Southend by an alternate route, listening to the BBC Brighton Bomb podcast in lovely sunshine & views made sweeter by the sea-pray air. This was slightly longer, but much more beautiful, & about 10 miles later I had once again reach’d Campbeltown Bay, studying my path across the waters to the road upon which I had arriv’d in town. I hadn’t realis’d at the time, but I has pass’d thro this significant cluster of isolated mansion, a millionaire’s huddle one could say, testament to Campbeltown’s trading past – they’d have first dibs on what was heading for the Central Belt, I’d imagine.
I then went back to the library for a little more work & food. I am working on two chief projects at present, the Silver Rose, inspired by Calliope, muse of epic; & the Chisper Effect, inspir’d by Clio, muse of history. I have been making strides with them in the early mornings & late at night, in my tent. With the Rose, it’s all about re-reading all the old sonnets & poems, making them all read better, & interconnecting them the best I can with the new stuff I am, & will be, writing. As for the Chisper Effect, my forthcoming trips to Turkey should add extra insights into both the Homeric Answer & the Shaesperean Grand Tour. The journey will also allow me to coalesce my huge heap of notes into something worthwhile.
My last night’s camping in the Campbeltown area was amusing. As I arriv’d at the big white farmhouse which guards the green wonderland behind, the farmer & his young family were playing outside in teh garden. I introduced myself as the owner of the tent, & that the next morning I would be off. He curtly ask’d me if I was mad, that were the cows annoying me, & that they were currently at my tent. Laughing it off, I was soon unlaughing, as indeed about 25 cows were crowded round my tent, some licking it furiously.
Thinking quickly, I began to smash two rocks together – they had ignor’d my shouts completely – , this did the trick, & away they all went leaving me to quickly relocate my camp to a place on higher ground where there were no tell-tall cowpat signs of the herd’s presence.
Next morning I woke up thinking what a day this was to be a poet – total sunshine & a spirit stirr’d by the prospect of more glorious morning prospects to come. I am sure there will be a bay somewhere in Greece that looks just like this one. Listening to the banging tunes serv’d up for breakfast by Radio Argyle, I broke camp & was away, my baggage even heavier with my recent ‘throw’ acquisition. My neck was hurting by the time I got to the Co-op to buy extensive festival supplies, but I was catching a bus to Jura, so there wouldn’t be much more carrying thro’ the rest of the day.
It was then 11.38 AM. I was sat on my city link bus ready for the off when I suddenly realised I’d left one set of glasses (middle vision) in the library. What would otherwise have been a lovely lazy bus ride admiring Kintyre’s west coast, was reduced to panic phone calls to the library ladies, calling my pal in Edinburgh for his address, buying postage off royal mail, forwarding the said label via email, & finally getting off the bus at Kennacraig at the end of the saga. Will need to sharpen up for the rest of my travels, clearly!
So, there I was, a lovely sunny day & hitting the rose wine already. A lovely journey again into the channel between Islay & Jura, a veritable Falkland Islands of the north. I also took the care to slit my new-bought pouch of tobacco (£26) into two segments, just in case I lost it at the festival.
It was then onto the wee blue ferry for Jura, upon which I met a nice lady whose cousin (Craig) was coming to pick her up. After asking her to ask him for help, I got a positive reaction towards them driving all my bags & Co-op shopping bags to Craighouse, leaving me to cycle behind them with the tunes on. It was on this journey, however, that I indeed lost the first of my two pouches of baccy, fallen out of my pocket somewhere on a swift downhill, I presume. Clearly not travel-sharp yet – two goofs in the same day!
Still, life goes on, & I reach’d Craighouse with plenty of daylight left, putting up my tent by some small boats in a tiny bay about a third of a mile from the centre of the village. I also did a spot of tatting, cycling off to find some plastic sheeting some house had left for pick-up outside their house, which was promptly placed under my, how can I say it, unwaterproof tent. Its on its last legs, but light, & the past few days have been rainless, so here’s hoping…
Near my tent was a house where Meg lived (sometimes) & her pal, Evie was staying. A few meters from my tent was a bench, which saw me sing (they said serenade) to them a couple of numbers from A Goan Love Song – they evendemanded an encore. The rest of the night I spent drinking most of the wine I’d brought with me near my tent, putting tunes on my laptop which was resting on a boat. The pub was quiet so I had a wee rave to myself under a scintillant tapestry of stars.
Woke up on the wine & started singing. After a few songs this lassie came over to me with shades on, wondering who I was & what I was up to. A little older than me, but cute, she told me that she was part of a 17 in a row posse who come for the catch up & a dance. It was looking like the party was gonna be great, until the car ferrries from the mainland to Islay-Jura were suddenlt cancelled for the rest of the day – a combination of rough seas & poor suspension. Calmac is Calmac whatever island they are servicing!
I said to one of the organisers, a buxom blonde woman, have the canellations thrown a spanner into any of the works. The answer was an affirmative yes, & that she was vry stress’d, & that the sound-man with a van full of gear couldn’t arrive for tonights concert in the village hall. I offer’d my services as a sound man if needed. I never did hear back from them, but it was nice to ask.
I also bought two more bottles of wine. I was determin’d to have some fun at this party – I hadn’t been to a festival all year, & with September just about to roll into October, it was a case of better late than never. There was an incident the previous July (& the July previously), suggesting rather stronglt I really shouldnt double-drop exstasy & drink spirits at the same time – it never ends cognitivey. A blessing was, however, there would be no class A’s for me at the party – but plenty & plenty of booze.
So it proceeded, three days of revellerie in an absolutely superb setting by Small Isles Bay. Friday night saw the locals night in thd hall, where anyone from Jura who could get a tune out of anything were given floor spots. Primary school kids singing Caledonia, & slightly older kids banging djembes as they sang. All very well co-ordinated by an English music teacher, whose choice of an song from England upset Craig, the guy who drove my bags in.
Also at the gig was Mira, an American-Italian-Turkish lady who was going out with a Blackpool boy, & the first person I ever met from Jura on my scouting mission earlier that summer. I ended up giving them my bike – I coldn’t take it with me, anyway. In return I will recieve the deets of her uncle in Istanbul – a bohemian, who I’d be getting along well with, for sure.
Also in the hall was the woman who’d approached me earlier in the day, who was now a lot more drunk, dressed up for the night, & clearly on the pull, cos I was pull’d, waking up in her car the following morning.
So to Saturday – an extremely wet day which soon waterlogged my flimsy tent, & that I spent the early parts of in the local back gallery room of the local church. I’d discover’d it on my first visit to Jura, recovering from borderline hyperthermia after an aborted cycle to the George Orwell farm where he wrote 1984. It was as rainy then as it was today. Still, the church had a toilet, a water heater for my pot noodles bought in Campbeltown, power to charge my electrics.
So there I was, under my new throw, keeping warm, playing internet chess & keeping an eye on the Saturday footy via my phone’s hotspot. Then a text came through – Heidi & Daniel had finally arrived from Glasgow – it was time to return to the festival. I’ve been playing with Daniel for several years now, so it was a case of ‘band on tour,’ & there would be plenty of chances for playing I am sure – & there was. I arriv’d to help Daniel struggling with his tent, then after a grand meeting I took them to Casa Damo – the church, which led to Heidi, an opera singer, filling the church with an Italian aria. An excuisite moment for an open-to-the-universe traveller.
I could go on & on about Jura Festival, but let me say the following – it was splendid; a wonderful mix of wonderful people, with opporunities to dance & join in. There was a bass amp & bass in the pub, via which me & Daniel did a 10 song set Saturday evening. There was the Sunday open mic, where I play’d a few nmbers, as did Heidi & Daniel. There was Highland Dancing, curated by an elderly lady on Islay – local Jura girls would go there every Saturday for lessons. Their performances brought me to tears via the beauty of the continuance of an artistic tradition. I do the same with my poetry.
The bands in the marquee were brilliant, really good, & there were also caeliedh. This led to a funny moment on the Sunday closing caeliedh when this lassie approached me, offered her hand & said ‘sir, can I have this dance.’ I’m like, no chance, I’m English, I dont know the moves, bu she insisted & after some kerfuffling, I was pulling it off by the last rounds – much to her pleas’d astonishment. Then, the very moment we finish’d, we were just about to get chatting when the lassie from the previous night, my genuine festival pal, suddenly appeared saying ‘its time to buy me that pint Damo (which I did), & my dance partner scarper’d. Funny girl jealous vibes.
After buying those pints in the pub, I found a jam was kicking off. A cool Moddish guy with an electric guitar playing classics – Wagon Wheel, Dirty Old Town, Rolling Down The River, stuff like that. There was Shaun the fiddler, who I’d beeen jamming with several times across the weekend,, & a guy on the cahon, but no-one on the bass. So I stepp’d in, & to conclude the festival was soon assisting in the conjuration of a cresent moon of ravers in front of the band, grooving to my bass fingers with massive smiles on their faces. A fantastic way to finish my Jura festival.
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