Nature is all around us and offers the antidote to lockdown blues

Ibelieve I may have found the antidote. It’s not a vaccine. You don’t have to be injected and it doesn’t involve quarantine. It’s also free and perfectly legal. Too good to be true, I hear you cry. Someone else would have thought of it by now.

Well, lots of people have come close, and newspapers, magazines, radio and television have been telling us almost from day one of lockdown mark one that nature is good for you, so go for a walk in the park, as if that was the be-all-and-end-all of nature.

Why not try a piece of woodland instead? You don’t need to own the woodland, you just have to be able to visit it, or even get close to it. Part of the problem of lockdown mark two is that it has coincided with winter, and the longer winter has gone on the more winter-fatigue has compounded coviditus, which, although it doesn’t appear in any medical dictionary, is nevertheless what we are all suffering from whether we have had the actual thing or not.

But my antidote only works at the end of winter, just when nature is thinking about spring, scratching its head and trying to decide if it’s time yet. While it’s making up its mind, it throws in a secret ingredient. We’ve all known about it before, we’ve all been familiar with it for years during February. But I for one just didn’t see the need for it as an antidote before.

So here’s how I discovered it. There was a drystane dyke that cut uphill from the loch to a wooded crag. Up near the crag the dyke was taller and more intact, whereas lower down it wore the forlorn expression of the redundant and disregarded. Higher up, then, it offered a better backrest and shelter, and as it happened I was looking for both because my backpack offered a coffee flask and biscuits.

The sound of an unseen waterfall rushed into the void left by silenced footsteps. This is the kind of situation my writing has fed off for more than 30 years now. The fall cut down through the crag but it was hidden by trees, so I pieced the nature of its presence together from the sound of its voice, the many sounds of its many voices.

Then, quite unannounced, the unambiguous voice of spring crept into the mix, and as if from far off, but it couldn’t possibly have been far off. It infiltrated the predominance of the waterfall even though it was much quieter, yet because its pitch was much higher and piercing and occasionally strident, it found ways through the sound-screen of the falls.

It was a mistle thrush. Somewhere above

the fall, high in the crag’s highest trees, a mistle thrush sang. Had it just begun, or had it been singing all along and it had taken time for me to tune in to the song of those changed surroundings? The song reached me in short, staccato phrases, often tapering away to short silences, one diminuendo after another, and further fragmented because from time to time the falls drowned it out.

But listen.

If you like your harbingers of spring well-toned, jazzily inventive and farcarrying, perhaps accompanied by coffee al fresco, and if you are willing to turn a blind eye to the occasional patch of snow that has yet to succumb to the thaw, then there on that late February late afternoon, were the first syllables of spring.

The singer was an un-mated male. And while it’s true that you can sometimes hear him on a fine afternoon of late December

or any time in January, those are moments of overture. But this, this was song for the sake of the song, an advertisement of his own availability, yes, but also an outpouring of intent, a declaration that winter is lost and irretrievable now.

It was nothing less than the first day of mistle thrush spring.

The mood of that moment suffused. It permeated hillside and drystane dyke. It cut through tree, crag, waterfall, thrush, song. The process of grafting on to nature’s late afternoon slowly crept beyond mind, beyond senses, became physical, became bodily, became wellbeing.

The thing is to be of the land, to breathe in unison with it, to keep its peace.

On and on the thrush.

On and on the waterfall.

Every morning just now, whenever I step out of the house to walk one of three possible routes that constitute my daily

lockdown exercise, I hear the mistle thrush sing.

Each of the routes is by three scraps of woodland and each has a singing thrush. That thrush-and-waterfall combination is the better part of 20 miles away, but mistle thrush song is the anthem of our winterinto-spring days.

When you hear one, stand still, give it the time of day. Behold the antidote.

To be of the land, to breathe in unison with it, to keep its peace

Sir, – The first minister made the statement she had left the Four Nations Covid meeting to attend her daily briefing.

Who was left to represent Scotland?

Would it not have been more important that our first minister participated in the meeting and John Swinney or a Scottish Government spokesperson took the daily briefing?

W Montgomery. Tullylumb Terrace, Perth.

“Your lovely photograph of Wormit Railway Station in Friday’s Craigie column is especially interesting, as the steam locomotive hauling the train is one of Sir Nigel Gresley’s six magnificent P2 2-8-2 Mikados,” emails Richard Peters of Kirkcaldy.

“The additional smoke deflectors appear to confirm that it is No 2002, named ‘Earl Marischal’.

“These imposing machines were introduced in 1934, specifically to handle heavy trains over the difficult Aberdeenedinburgh route, but were controversially rebuilt as Pacifics by Gresley’s successor, Edward Thompson, about 10 years later.

“All carried evocative names associated with Scottish folklore, suggested by readers of a boys’ comic paper, popular at the time.

“Happily, all is not lost. Work on a ‘newbuild’ P2 is well under way. Completion is scheduled for 2023, and the loco will be numbered 2007. It will carry the name ‘Prince of Wales’ when running south of the border, while in Scotland, it will be ‘Duke of Rothesay’.

“Unfortunately, due to weight/clearance restrictions, we won’t see it gracing the Tay Bridge, but to paraphrase a well-known song, there are other ‘Roads to Dundee’!”

She finds the labels, and sees that they are Laura Ashley dresses. Further along, a gorgeous sky-blue smock dress with a low neck has the Finnish designer label Marimekko. So for all they were living on a fairly remote island, Viola was prepared to spoil her daughter with fashionable dresses. Did they go to Glasgow or Edinburgh to buy them?

She holds the maxi dress against her and looks down at the lovely length of it. It is in perfect condition and worth quite a lot of money. True vintage but how can she ever bear to sell it? No. She’ll wear it, and the others, if only for her own satisfaction.

Surely there will be island events, the odd ceilidh in one or other of the village halls, functions in the hotels at Scoull or Keill. If she stays here for the summer, perhaps some kind of social life will emerge. Perhaps she can get to know Alys, the jeweller, and her husband.

Persistent

Perhaps, says an insistent voice at the back of her head, perhaps you can get to know Cal better. Or perhaps not. The thought of his long body, almost vibrating with energy, comes into her head. What would be the harm? Can she trust him?

As if on cue, her phone trembles again. Another message. “Are you there yet? How are things?”

He’s nothing if not persistent, although now she’s fairly certain this has more to do with the attractions of Auchenblae and its contents than with herself.

She sighs and texts back: “Yes, just got here.”

“Do you want to borrow Hector?” “I think I’ll be OK, don’t you?” she writes. “Your choice.” He signs off abruptly. She senses that he’s miffed. Tough, she thinks, and puts the phone away.

Later that afternoon, she drives through the village, waving to Mr Cameron, who is pruning roses at the front of the hotel, and turns left towards the sea at the Ardachy Gallery signpost. The cottage is bigger than Cal’s tiny cottage at Carraig, a sturdy white building with dormer windows standing above the broad expanse of Scoull Bay that stretches from the village, past Port Manus below the hotel, past Ardachy and beyond.

It might be possible to walk across when the tide is very low. Maybe, too, you could keep going round the small headland to the north of Scoull Bay, back to Auchenblae. She’ll try it some time.

Beyond the house, a lane curves down towards the sea and she suspects there will be another tiny harbour there, like the ones at Auchenblae and Carraig.

Near the house, there is a neat vegetable garden with a row of early potatoes and a fenced-off piece of grass, with chickens clucking to themselves. At the gate she can see that they are different colours, and presumably different breeds, though she knows very little about such things.

They look exotic and old-fashioned, like hens in a children’s storybook. There’s another well-made wooden sign beside the gate, saying: “Gallery Open. Please come in and browse.”

The gallery is in a separate building, clad in larch, with a slate roof. It is set to one side of the house and at right angles to it, with an open door on this side, and wide windows on the seaward side. The walls are white, the roof grey slate.

Friendly voice

In the sheltered triangle between the house and gallery, somebody has already planted up a wealth of tubs and pots that will be a blaze of colour in a few weeks. There are bicycles propped against the wall, one of them with a child’s seat on the back, and a ginger cat sitting sunning itself on a Lloyd Loom chair. It gazes at her disdainfully as she comes through the gate, but doesn’t move.

“Come in, come in,” says a friendly voice as she hesitates at the door. The enticing smell of coffee filters out. “Come in and have a look around.” A woman is working at a table, with a magnifier and a bright lamp, although the room is already full of light. In one corner, there’s a play house, a box of toys, a row of dolls and teddies seated on plastic chairs, with a little girl, perhaps four years old, holding court.

She has soft dark curls tied back with a red ribbon, and she’s dressed in bright blue dungarees. She glances up briefly when Daisy comes in, but doesn’t leave her selfimposed task of instructing her toys. “Are you Alys?”

The woman smiles, gets up, extends a hand. “I am.”

“Mrs Cameron at the hotel said I should come and speak to you.”

“Ah – you must be Auchenblae. Flowerfield.”

“That’s right. What a lovely set-up you’ve got here!” She looks around, taking in the display cabinets, the shelves, the work that seems to be a mixture of old and new, found things, fragments of sea glass and pottery, crystal and amber beads, silverwork and enamelling. There’s a leaping hare on a chain, a cluster of island flowers in silver and beadwork, earrings with delicate flying birds.

“And what lovely work!”

“Thank you. It’s taken us a while to get to this stage, but it’s doing OK now.” “But you’re not from here originally?” “No. I’m from Edinburgh. But my husband is an islander born and bred, which helps. I moved here – let me see – five years ago now. It was a big step to take, for me and my son both. But the right one, as it turns out.”

Gangly teenager

Daisy.

From

As if on cue, the gate swings open and somebody calls: “Hi, Mum!”

Daisy sees a gangly teenager coming through the gate. He’s in school uniform: a blazer and grey trousers, tie askew, a ridiculously heavy bag slung on his shoulder. He comes over to the gallery, pokes his head through the door, waves at the little girl, who waves back.

“Is Donal about?”

“No. He’s taken a fishing party out.” “Wish he’d waited for me.”

“Well, I don’t think they could do that, could they?”

“Where’s Malky?”

“On the boat. Go and get yourself something to eat and do your homework. They’ll be back soon. He might take you out for a bit before tea.”

“Cool.” He turns to go.

“There are scones in the tin. Don’t drink all the milk.”

He wanders off. “I’ll go and get changed.” “Don’t forget the homework.”

“I won’t.”

Your choice.” He signs off abruptly. She senses that he’s miffed. Tough, she thinks, and puts the phone away

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.

British Airways has boosted its liquidity by £2.45 billion as it tries to weather the pandemic.

Owner International Airlines Group (IAG) said the airline has reached final agreement on a £2bn loan underwritten by a syndicate of banks and partially guaranteed by the government’s UK Export Finance.

The carrier expects to draw down from the five-year loan before the end of next month.

British Airways has also reached agreement with the trustee of a pension scheme to defer £450 million of pension deficit contributions due between October 2020 and September 2021.

It was due to fill the hole in its pension pot by March 2023, but the deferred contributions plus interest will be made as monthly repayments after this date.

The airline closed down the New Airways Pension Scheme (Naps) in 2018, moving its employees on to a new, less generous fund.

The Naps was a final salary plan, which guaranteed workers would be paid a proportion of what their salary was in the year before they retired.

IAG added that it “continues to explore other debt initiatives to improve further its liquidity”.

It swung to a pre-tax loss of 6.2bn euros (£5.6bn) for the nine months to the end of September 2020.

British Airways has been badly hit by the collapse in demand caused by the coronavirus pandemic.

Passenger numbers are not expected to return to 2019 levels until at least 2023.

SONG OF JOY: The distinctive mistle thrush song is the powerful anthem of our winter-into-spring days, and a sound to lift the heart.

Many of British Airways’ planes remain grounded.