Something Else - 9Bach hits Winchester

I’m not sure how to start this, but Wow! feels about right.

It’s just 48 hours since we got home from our terrific large sophisticated concert at the Barbican (see the previous blog) and we’re at it again, out on our musical adventures. The prospect before us however, couldn’t be more different or lacking in promise. We’re in a small, dark, battered and seat-less (aside from a single bench) back room to a tiny amiable pub of similar attributes behind the railway station in Winchester. The (highly competent) support act is gamely playing to about ten people, at the end of which he gets as much of a clap as ten people can muster, and we discover that six of those people comprise the main band for the evening. At least the ale from the bar at the back of the room is pretty good!

So… the six band members duly get up on stage and word goes out that the “main event” is about to start. After a short delay there is an influx from the main (i.e. tiny) pub of eight or nine people, phew - at least the audience has gone up rather than down, just! And if we add in the barman, the sound man and a roving photographer that makes about fifteen of us. Everyone stands coyly round the edges, clutching their drinks, terrified of the wide open space in the centre of the room. And then the music starts…

“We are 9Bach”, charismatic lead singer Lisa Jen Brown announces, and who with husband and guitarist Martin Hoyland form the core of the band. They hail from Bethesda in the heart of Welsh speaking North Wales, on the edge of Snowdonia, with the vast gash of the Penrhyn slate quarry dominating their view in contrast to the beautiful neighbouring Ogwen valley. Lisa sings in wonderfully soft and expressive Welsh (with one Greek exception), songs that are mostly interpretations of traditional Welsh material of generally weighty subject matter, which is perfectly complemented by the innovative slow and pulsing atmospheric sounds of the band with harp, guitars, drums, harmonium and frequent tinkles from xylophone and chimes which are extraordinarily engaging; gentle and powerful by turns, and highly evocative of the homeland. But if this is the context and the general sound, what is really astonishing is the quality and subtle creativity of the songs, arrangements and delivery. This is a class act.

The ever reliable fRoots magazine, ahead of the game as usual

After the first impressive song everyone is smiling, realising this isn’t going to be a duff performance. After two or three it’s broad grins and earnest concentration all round, this demands our full attention. Then comes the first of an outrageous number of spine-tingling “stop you in your tracks” songs that has my better half spontaneously standing up in excitement, not quite sure what to do with herself but knowing sitting on the bench is no longer satisfactory! The rest of the audience are similarly increasingly agitated and/or entranced and there is a growing awareness that we may be small in number but tonight we are some of the luckiest folk in the land. And so it goes on, innovative and bewitching throughout, interspersed with hilarious and unrepeatable banter between the band members, and increasingly the audience, often initiated by mischievous London cabbie and drummer (and token non-Welsh member) Ali Byworth. The emotional range and effect achieved is extraordinary, and the ultimate highlight is the stunning song Plentyn that Lisa herself has written after a visit to the aborigines of Australia, telling the appalling true story of the white man coming to take a mothers child away, and capturing the ensuing grief and despair. The piece as performed is a thing of astonishing beauty.

The understated, mesmerising first album from 2009

And then, too soon, it’s all over, and they’re off the stage and we’re shaking hands and having a good old natter. Lisa admits she’s thoroughly enjoyed the venue despite the turn-out; they’ve just played a couple of concerts in one to two hundred seat auditoriums in North Wales and found it a little too staid being spread out on a large stage which kills the banter within the band, and with the audience locked into their seats restricting the scope for dynamics and spontaneity and hence the atmosphere they clearly thrive on. Chatting to Martin he’s unassumingly chuffed to bits when we make clear what we thought of the evening’s performance, and that the new album Tincian has had rave reviews in the national broadsheets over the last couple of weeks; I waste no time in giving him a tenner for my copy. I’ve had their impressive eponymous debut album for the last four years and play it regularly, it’s extremely engaging in its unique understated way and many of its pieces were played this evening to great effect, but it has also always hinted at huge further potential – something that’s been finally realised in spades tonight and through the new release. Lisa and fellow singer Mirain Roberts ask sociably if we can stick around for a while as they are keen to extend the post-performance social – but with a heavy heart we have to make our excuses for the late drive home (a decision we naturally regret even more half way back).

The stunning new album... err, just buy it!

Walking through darkened Winchester back to the car the locals are turning in for the night, absurdly unaware of the uniquely special experience on their doorstep that they all missed out on. No it wasn’t a smart concert at the Barbican or Royal Festival Hall, it was something else.

 

For more information on 9Bach, including access to some nice videos, click on: www.9bach.com

A River, an Exhibition, and a Concert

It’s perhaps one of lifes underrated pleasures to simply sit outside the Royal Festival Hall, overlooking the Thames, sipping a good coffee on a summer Sunday morning with a cloudless sky and a cool breeze, before the crowds arrive and the heat builds. The place and the day are full of potential and we have a simple but interesting agenda, but there is no rush, yet; bliss.

A peaceful morning coffee before the culture and the crowds, Royal Festival Hall (18May14)

 

The perfect cooling-off facility, South Bank (18May14)

 

Loaded and ready for the onslaught, the outside bar at the Royal Festival Hall (18May14)

In the fine weather the Thames looks glorious, despite the tide being out. Folk are down on the “beaches” hunting for history or building sand castles where it’s not mud. Strolling eastwards along the South Bank it’s hard to stop taking pictures like all the foreign tourists, it all looks so damned good. The skyline continues to evolve and to be pecked away at by myriad cranes; it’s accumulating an increasing number of massive oddly shaped buildings all striving to be different. It’s getting a bit like grannies overcluttered mantelpiece full of nick-nacks, with even the splendour of St Pauls looking increasingly marginalised and lesser churches lost long ago in the deep canyons between the big new boys, with just the odd spire or tower top peeking out.

Looking downstream to Blackfriars Bridge and St Pauls (18May14)

 

Assorted new stuff on the skyline, solar-panelled Blackfriars Bridge in the foreground,  River Thames (18May14)

Arriving at the relatively modest Bankside Gallery, we dip inside out of the shadow of the looming monster of Tate Modern next door. An hour of soaking up the Original Prints exhibition by the Royal Society of Painter-Printmakers is inspiring and good for the soul, so much diverse good work. Top quality original art doesn’t come much more affordable than this and I have to lock my wallet away and fight multiple temptations; I escape unscathed. The father-in-law’s work looks good and has a sale denoted by a red dot, so some good news to report back on.

On the beach at Gabriel's Wharf (18May14)

Lunch under a tree outside the gallery and the tide is clearly starting to come in, those shores will soon disappear. By 1pm we realise we need to scoot, we have an afternoon concert to get to at the Barbican that starts at 2pm, and we haven’t been there before. Zig-zagging through the crowds on the now non-bouncy (booh) Millenium Bridge, past St Pauls and down narrow streets to the Guildhall we finally reach the huge, confusing yet strangely appealing Barbican. It’s a rather wonderful high and low-rise complex of offices, housing, schools, and concert venues with embedded lakes, fountains and plantlife – but a real struggle to quickly assimilate how to navigate to our desired Milton Court concert hall, which proves to be out the far side of the main set-up. Fortunately we get there with fifteen minutes to spare.

The foyer’s hot and we’re sticky, but it’s now time to chill out again and get ourselves into the right frame of mind for a very novel and varied concert. Fortunately the auditorium is cool and we have prime seats at the front of the circle.

US-based Nonesuch Records are a pretty discerning and eclectic bunch as music labels go, with high-brow signings such as Philip Glass, Steve Reich and the Kronos Quartet, which have not been my natural territory to date; but also the more accessible likes of Emmylou Harris, Natalie Merchant and, most recently and intriguingly, Olivia Chaney (see my first blog of the year). To celebrate 50 years in the business Nonesuch pretty much took over the Barbican last weekend to run a sequence of five concerts where they deliberately mixed up a considerable number of the artists on their books in various experimental collaborations, to force both musicians and audiences to reconsider their musical boundaries. And so to our concert, the fourth out of the five, with an impressive line-up that at least contained some known and partially known quantities, but also plenty of unknowns…
 

First up were the extraordinary Dublin-based Crash Ensemble, a “contemporary music ensemble” who I groundlessly feared might be of an irredeemably  “squeaky bonky” persuasion but who were actually utterly captivating in their 25 minute rendition of the wonderfully novel, varied and creative piece Gra agus Bas, with riveting gaelic singing from Iarla O Lionaird throughout (for whom the piece was originally written). I have previously encountered Iarla’s unique singing style (largely the much maligned traditional Irish sean nos style) from his work with Afro Celt Sound System some years ago but this performance brought home just how versatile and powerful it can be and the whole integrated performance brought a solid much-deserved ovation from the audience.

Then followed the main part of the concert, anchored by the impressive four piece Kronos Quartet who were themselves celebrating their 40th anniversary, and who kicked off with a wonderfully quirky piece where all members simply plucked rather than bowed their instruments – terrific funky stuff. The session then developed with individually capable singers and musicians Rhiannon Giddens, Olivia Chaney, Sam Amidon and finally Natalie Merchant coming on in turn to perform folk songs in conjunction with the Kronos Quartet. These performances had their highs and lows for me with the clear stars being, somewhat surprisingly, the newcomer Chaney and Giddens. Chaney in particular, perhaps because of her classical training, seemed to totally get how to gel with the Kronos Quartet and brought to their joint performances a compelling singing style which writhes and emotes in the most unique and creative manner - hers were performances that resulted in that very special magic you always hope for on these occasions. Giddens almost matched this with her versatile southern US sensibilities and styles and clear powerful voice, and her final gaelic mouth-music piece was particularly impressive, if a little disorientating – having previously heard the song many times but only via Scottish gaelic singers. Apparently North Carolina had the largest immigrant Scottish population in the US at one time and so she legitimately claimed the right to sing this piece.

 

For me young Sam Amidon’s engaging folky singing and guitar/fiddle playing, which I think in its more normal contexts would be a winning combination, appeared to struggle a little at times to fit with the string accompaniments of the Kronos Quartet. On a few occasions his playing seemed to clash directly with the accomplished Kronos sound and his voice sometimes didn’t seem to have quite the heft required to get the desired impact out of the songs. But hey, this was an experiment and success is not always complete or unequivocal in such situations, nothing ventured nothing gained.

And so to Natalie Merchant. Her name on the bill was probably responsible for a fair number of ticket sales and as a long-term devotee it certainly influenced my decision to attend. As such her arrival on stage was keenly awaited and, reflecting this, she was held back until last. Rather surprisingly however, it turned out (for this member of the audience anyway) to be the low point of the afternoon; not only did she do the shortest of cameos with just two rather downbeat songs but she tripped over the words on the first one and had to sheepishly restart it –something you and your audience can recover from if you’re doing a full concert but more tricky within such a brief appearance. And talking of appearances (and I’m not one who normally worries much about such things), Merchants dress sense continues to confound even me, coming on as she did in what can best be described as a Nora Batty influenced combo (non-UK readers may wish to Google this name – a key British sartorial reference point). I was genuinely trying to discern for a while if she had rollers in her crinkled hair!
 

And so we strolled back out into the sunshine, and through the narrow London streets back to the river, with much to cogitate on. It was a brave, adventurous, stimulating concert with many different things to appreciate and contemplate, which is rather more than most performances achieve, …which I think makes it a considerable success.

In love with the South Downs, finally

Jammed onto a south coast train full of shoppers heading for Brighton last Saturday, the appeal of our days plan was not immediately apparent. Subsequently running the gauntlet of the pedestrian death-trap that is suburban Worthing (so many mini-roundabouts!) as we headed north from the station, things weren’t much better, until a rounded green hilly horizon hove into view. An hour from the station and it’s all change; we’re at the ancient hill top fort of Cissbury Ring, a peaceful elevated haven half a mile across, and the panorama is spectacular. The south coast from Beachy Head in the east to the Isle of Wight in the west is spread before us, with the sea all asparkle. To the north are the sensual rounded undulations of the gentle dip slope of the South Downs proper, whose inherent chalkiness means that that all farming impressions register clear and bright, the effect being extraordinarily, if unintentionally, creative and arresting to the eye. Tracks are etched in pure white, ploughing with the lie of the land results in bright brushstrokes in sweeps and patches, while crops are interspersed in abstract shapes. It’s almost as if the farmers are intent on some large scale piece of modern art. On the skyline some miles off is the distinctive tufted clump of trees of the sister hill fort of Chanctonbury Ring, our ultimate (i.e. lunch) and equally atmospheric destination on this walk.

Looking to Chanctonbury Ring (left skyline) from Cissbury Ring. (3May14)

Unreservedly savouring the views and atmosphere of this day, I had to acknowledge that I have finally fallen unequivocally for the South Downs. I may have lived near them most of my adult life but as an evangelical devotee of wild and high mountain country, my walking visits to the Downs have too often been beset with the mindset of modest expectations and enthusiasm, i.e. it was the best I could do to mark time until my next fix of “real” hills.


South to the sea from Chanctonbury Ring. (Oct12)



My appreciation of the Downs has slowly built through frequent walks with my better half, who as always has a much less prejudiced take, and as a result of frequent cycling forays in the lanes around and through them; always a delight, even if climbing the steep northern scarp slopes is an often tough proposition! And I really must get into the whole mountain biking thing for which I have finally registered the Downs are tailor-made (hence all those happy mountain bikers I keep seeing enjoying themselves, doh!)

On the chalk and flint, approaching Glatting Beacon from the west, on a cold early spring day (1Apr13)

Another substantial influence has been the discovery and delight in various cultural connections. The beguiling shapes and patterns of the hills have excited many artists, and perhaps no one has done better justice to this than painter Eric Ravilious. His is work I can’t get enough of, in its sparing sweeping elegance that beautifully matches the nature of the Downs. Once familiar with his approach it’s hard to walk anywhere on the chalk without seeing echoes of his work everywhere you look, a case of nature imitating art, or is nature the true art and his paintings simply a  beautiful acknowledgement of that? Whatever, familiarity with Ravilious’s work simply adds substantially to my appreciation and enjoyment of the Downs.

Walking the chalk lanes near the Trundle, north of Chichester, in high summer (Jul10)

I also find the beautiful evocations of Edward Thomas’s The South Country rattling around in my head whenever I’m out on foot or awheel in the rural south east generally, but on the Downs particularly. Thomas used to walk long and often, and almost obsessively, to stave of the depressions that dogged him throughout his adult life, and although probably his most upbeat work, The South Country does still have a touch of melancholy about it. Indeed that melancholic tinge extends to both Thomas and Ravilious insofar as both were to die far too young, in the First and Second World Wars respectively, just a handful of years after producing the fine works that sustain myself and many others now and into the future. Perhaps paradoxically however, there can still be no more uplifting company than these two men when striding out on the Downs and taking in the sweeping forms and vistas.

Legacies of the perfect walking companions

 

Books, the Booker, and the fiendish Folio Society

In this world of instant electronic communication and gratification, and inane knee-jerk tweeting, it’s good to remind yourself sometimes of how amazing and rewarding the simple book can be. As a source of knowledge, insight, new ideas and ways of thinking, and for general mind expansion (and yes, entertainment and escape) it’s hard to beat. In the fast-moving world it seems to be often regarded as slow and outmoded, which misses the point that things of real worth take time to be properly expressed and assimilated, and that sustained experiences can ultimately be more rewarding than the short-lived. The media recently reported that the average British home contains just 138 books, most of which are unread; why do these people limit themselves so? Especially given the implication that around half of homes have less than this number.

These thoughts came to the fore during my recent reading of Eleanor Cattons superb, Booker winning, novel The Luminaries which I would recommend to almost anyone. Don’t be put off by the erudite prize, it’s a real page turner of a murder, mystery, and ultimately romance, set in the New Zealand gold rush of the 1860s. Don’t be put off by its Dickensian length of 800 pages either, I got through this a lot quicker than some books a quarter the size. In fact it is remarkably reminiscent of Dickens, with much beautifully atmospheric description and building of characters and place, and set in the same era albeit on the opposite side of the globe – I think he might have approved. It’s also a book that doesn’t insult the intelligence of the reader, building a plot of initially bewildering colour, complexity and angles, dropping snippets of information for the reader to work on, before gradually resolving the whole into focus. I’ll need another read to more fully grasp it, but it’s an impressive and insightful work for someone the young side of thirty and bodes well for the future of literature.

That such a fine piece of work, that can entertain the reader for several weeks or more, is available so affordably is also surely something to cheer; good books are particularly accessible and democratic art forms.

Yet books are also, beyond the words, physical objects of potentially considerable allure - particularly in the hands of certain publishers. While I may like to believe the magic of a book is in the words alone, and hence can be extracted from the tattiest of cheap paperbacks, like many I am susceptible to the seduction of a beautiful edition. In fact I have recently had to admit the grubby truth that a beautiful edition can fundamentally affect my willingness to engage with certain books, and how avidly I read them! Enter the fiendish Folio Society who have produced stunning editions of major works for decades, and who, disturbingly, now seem to know my every weakness and predilection. I love them really of course, not just because of their jaw dropping  publications, but because by succumbing to their charms in a measured and selective way I have found myself contemplating and then devouring highly rewarding fiction that I seem in the last couple of years to have very belatedly developed an insatiable appetite for. For although the house is full of books fiction is very much in the minority and it seems to be time to put that right, so thank you Folio for making this happen.

The fruits of succumbing to temptation! Folio editions may be a guilty pleasure, but a substantial and long-lasting pleasure nonetheless.

It’s also good to note that the Folio Society is not all about the cover; as the Booker prize faltered a couple of years ago when it showed tendencies (since reversed I would suggest) towards putting populism above writing quality, the Folio stepped in smartly with a major new international literature prize which promised no such compromises. Nonetheless its first winner, announced earlier this month in George Saunders Tenth of December, looks a fascinating read; perhaps you really can have your quality cake and read it. Indeed maybe that’s the ultimate definition of a true classic.

Reaching for the Light - on the cusp of Spring in Gloucestershire

Munching our bacon butties and pouring our second cup of Lapsang Souchong from the flask, we’re managing to nicely stave off the worst effects of the cold drizzle as we wait on the bank of the River Severn, much to the envy of our fellow Bore watchers. We struck gold with our B&B this weekend; needing to get away too early for a full-on farmhouse breakfast we’re instead packed off two mornings in a row with a bag of butties and homemade flapjack for our riverside rendezvous. And here it comes, careering round the bend in the river…

Severn Bore near Minsterworth (3Mar14)

The Severn Bore is a strange thing, a wide fast quiet smooth ominous wave, a metre or more high, mostly audible due to its edges tearing along the banks. But more impressive still is registering that this is not an isolated lump moving rapidly up-river but rather the leading edge of a dramatic rise in river level, several metres in a matter of minutes and continuing to rise swiftly thereafter. And a complete reversal of a major river flow in seconds – from a fast flow towards the sea driven by rain sodden ground through the Midlands and Wales, to an even faster tide-driven “upstream” flow despite being tens of miles from anything that can be described as sea.

After all this excitement it was good to climb up to the local viewpoint of May Hill and get the wider perspective on the Severn down to the Bristol Channel. It was misty and atmospheric up there and the vista was stunning. And the sun also deigned to show itself eventually, joy!

Severn bends from May Hill (3Mar14)

Then it was on to Ross-on-Wye for lunch overlooking the river, and a subsequent stroll along the Wye. After chilling out in a fine café we pootled back to Gloucester to explore the renovated docks in the last light of the day, before a splendid pizza! A classic full day where a new spring light finally felt like it was emerging.

Chilling out in Ross-on-Wye (3Mar14)

 

Last light at Gloucester Docks (3Mar14)

This was reinforced the next morning, when we rose early to catch a second Bore, and opened the curtains to a glorious frosty sunny perfect morning. Sometimes the smallest things make all the difference; today it was heavy condensation on the inside of the bedroom window through which the rising sun shone fantastically. It created something magical that amplified enormously the wonderful morning light – we knew we were on a very special day. Today we walked a beautiful stretch of the Severn, and saw a smaller Bore, in brilliant sun, and all completely to ourselves. Such a perfect morning, in the new light, that after a briefer than planned stop in Chepstow we headed home, early, knowing we’d got what we came for...

Sunrise at Brawn Farm (4Mar14)

Sunrise at Brawn Farm (4Mar14)

Sunrise (Spring-rise?) at Brawn Farm (4Mar14)

 

A Winter Weekend in the Highlands - and the Imperative of The Good Day

It wasn’t a difficult decision, either get off and push the bike up the final rough climb - or vomit, and then do the former for a slightly shorter distance anyway. Mark and I were five miles along the private, doggedly uphill, single-track road to Loch Fannich, pedalling in full waterproofs, heavy winter walking boots, and lugging dense rucsacs laden with winter ironmongery, while being pelted by rain from an ominously dark cloud. I could see about two yards ahead with my head down and hood up, but still caught the ear-to-ear grin of an estate worker in his snug 4x4 as he waited for us to grind past, wishing us a good day with undisguised glee.

But we knew better, we knew this was indeed The Good Day of our long weekend in the winter hills; we had faith in the forecast and we were committing ourselves to a full day. Unfortunately it was also my first day in the bigger hills this year, and the urgent need to forgo any gentler warm-up days was rather an uncomfortable shock to the system. No amount of walking the South Downs in preceding weekends prepares you for this level of effort.

Locking the bikes to a deer fence a further mile on, the rain eased off and the sky became broken with increasing brightness cracking through as we began our walk – a simple but fine anticlockwise circuit of the two easternmost snow-plastered summits of the Fannichs. After an hour and a half slog we reached the top of An Coileachan, and in so doing became part of an elegant blue and white world with wispy clouds occasionally coming and going, where we remained for the next couple of hours. After a necessarily brief rest/snack stop, since the sub-zero temperatures with added wind chill tend to keep you moving, and donning crampons due to the harder frozen conditions underfoot, we savoured the two mile crunch along the undulating ridge to Meall Gorm.

Mark heading NW from An Coileachan, above Loch Gorm, in the Fannichs (7Feb14)

 

Looking NW along the Fannichs towards Meall Gorm, with Sgurr Mor at right (7Feb14)

 

Mark heading NW towards Meall Gorm in the Fannichs, with Sgurr Mor at right (7Feb14)

 

Remote Loch Fannich from Meall Gorm, with Fionn Bheinn behind (7Feb14)

The subsequent descent to Fannich Lodge, and along to the bikes was all too quickly done, with great views across Loch Fannich and the hills to the west. A terrific six mile whizz back down the track to the main road in less than 30 minutes completed a memorable eight hour day. We had done justice to The Good Day, knowing full well the following couple of days the weather would be much less friendly. And so it proved, with a tough outing on Beinn Loinne above Loch Cluanie the next day (Saturday), where we climbed into increasingly dense and wet falling snow, only to emerge all the soggier some hours later with poor views and no photos to be had. The Sunday was an even worse forecast and so we chose to have a recovery day, saving ourselves for the final day - and planning a trip to the dry, warm, sunny Pyrenees later in the year into the bargain! (Oh, and did I mention going to the pub?)

The Monday forecast was no better than Saturdays, yet the fickle nature of Scottish mountain conditions is such that we had a much more satisfactory day – it often pays to call the forecasts bluff, sometimes it comes off (err, and sometimes it doesn’t). This was not the idyllic conditions of The Good Day, but a more typical fast-changing winter day with solid high-level cloud cover, rain and snow showers but enough lower-level cloud breakage to get interesting, if fleeting, views. The temperature had risen over several days so the steep slopes of Sgurr Mhic Bharraich above Loch Duich at the western end of Glen Shiel were covered in soft wet snow requiring care. It’s an exceptionally fine viewpoint in good conditions, but the weather only allowed us carefully edited highlights – sometimes we were completely clouded in, then we had snatches of views in various directions for seconds at a time. Very tantalising, but engaging enough to keep us on the summit until our fingers had gone numb trying to grab photos.

Grinning or grimacing? Mark at the summit of Sgurr Mhic Bharraich (10Feb14)

It was the final act of another great long winter weekend, which has become a highly rewarding if demanding annual fixture for me. The success of which is always almost entirely down to having extraordinarily generous, selfless friends and hosts with an equally ferocious appetite for “getting out there” in all winds and weathers. Thanks again Mark and Lorna.

When Music and Mountains Meet - The Strathglass Trilogy

There’s something special about finding an unexpected connection during the course of pursuing two apparently independent activities – a glimpse perhaps of some deeper personal motivation that underpins the various things one feels passionate about…

Ten years ago this summer I camped for four nights at a midge-infested site on the outskirts of the small highland village of Cannich in Strathglass, 12 miles west of Loch Ness. Over three consecutive days there, I drove up each of the three parallel glens stretching west (Strathfarrar, Cannich and Affric) in turn, to park up, shoulder my rucksack and take in as many of the highest mountain ridges and summits as I could in a single days circular walk. The net result was a particularly satisfying and continuous appreciation of a sizeable chunk of the Highlands; the stunning glens, their rivers, birch, birds and squirrels, and the airy perspective from the mountains of the full spread of the land and the many large and deeply embedded lochs. On the third morning, I set off on foot from the Mullardoch dam (the largest in Scotland, half a mile wide in a distinctive V-shape, and completed in 1951) which defines the point beyond which the upper ten miles of Glen Cannich is now submerged. Despite some urgency to stay ahead of forecast incoming bad weather I was almost immediately stopped in my tracks by a striking cairn overlooking the north side of vast Loch Mullardoch. This turned out to be the Chisholm Cairn, commemorating 700 years of the Chisholm clan living and working the glen and surrounding lands, and also marking a spot near a now submerged clan gathering point. The cairn had a number of intriguing Moses-style stone tablets (albeit lacking text, being either blank or of sparsely abstract design) embedded in it, the symbolism of which still escapes me, but its strange nature stuck in my mind, along with the name of Chisholm.

 

Fast forward to a month ago, when I obtained a copy of the very fine recent album Affric by Scottish fiddler Duncan Chisholm. I was slow to register the implication of this combination of names, perhaps because I was initially so blown away by the music, but a read of the sleeve notes had my eyes widening. Duncan is something of a Scottish Sibelius in that his modus operandi is the evocation of specific wild landscapes and its associated history through his original compositions and exquisite playing – in his case a seductive and addictive mix of beautiful slow airs and compelling energetic pieces that stir the emotions at every turn yet are extraordinarily easy on the ear. He is of course a Chisholm rooted in the very area I explored, and currently based in Inverness; and it further transpires that Affric is simply the final splendid act in a multi-year project to evoke the three glens running west from Strathglass in three albums, the others being Canaich (2010) and Farrar (2008). Having now tracked down the latter two and confirmed that they match Affric for sheer quality, diversity, listening pleasure and raw evocation of some very special places, I find myself sitting back in admiration at the scale of his dedication and musical achievement. The music has been variously described as cinematic and semi-classical, but the traditional basis is all-pervading - but highly accessible. This may even be fiddle (and viola) music for the person who avowedly protests they don’t like fiddle music! 

It was fitting that the completion of the Strathglass project was celebrated last January with a concert on a stormy night at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery in Glasgow at the Celtic Connections festival, where pieces from the entire project were woven together into a coherent whole, the Strathglass Suite. Reports from attendees are that this was a very special occasion indeed where performer, audience, music and sense of place and history connected marvellously – and fortunately for all it was recorded and has recently been released. That’s one I have yet to savour...

Perhaps I should have included some of my photos of this landscape of Duncan’s that I explored and am now anxious to return to, though currently they languish on 35mm slides in a draw, yet to be scanned into the digital era. There again, the images will come to your minds eye easily enough if you simply listen to the music – it’s that good. And the evocative imagery in the album sleeve notes, by local artists and photographers, are both original and beautiful – a further manifestation of the dedication and love that is everywhere in this project.