Scotland and the referendum

I have wondered all my life about Scotland.

What it means, and what it does not mean.

Who we are, and who we are not.

Growing up close to the border (for there is only one) focuses the mind.  27 miles was all that separated my childhood house from England.  One day far back in my youth (and I mean significantly before I was 10), I declared my intention to use one of my cycle rides with my late, great father, to ride to England.  In my vague memory, it was both a grand statement of intent (a different country no less!) – and eminently achievable.  It was just past Jedburgh, wasn’t it?

Luckily (and not entirely unpredictably) for my Dad, the reality of the task hit long before the border was in sight – in fact, I suspect the wind on the long, open bridge high over the river Tweed was probably the snapping point.  In the end, I satisfied myself with a return trip to Melrose – an awe-inspiring odyssey of about 3 miles in each direction.

Since I can remember, thoughts of Scotland are not separated by much from thoughts of England.  I don’t know if the same is true in Cardiff, but it seems to me that as Scots, we know who we are, because we know very clearly who we are not.  This is not to condone anti-English sentiment – quite the opposite.  It is however important to realise how fundamental the sense of being on the wrong end of an unequal power equation has been, and how unhealthy it seems to me to define yourself in negative, exclusive terms.

Identity of any sort is an often confusing and deceptive construction – a pointless quantising of an endlessly variable reality, and at the same time an essential categorisation system to enable us to deal with the  vastly variable world through which we move.  This is a discussion you could spend forever exploring - time for that later.

Having watched the referendum debate unfold from across the water in Ireland, it has made me proud in a positive way once again to be Scottish.  A famous businessman from Edinburgh – from an immigrant family – once described the “democracy of the people” as one of his favourite things in Scotland, and it has again become raucously, glaringly apparent these last few months, as the debate within Scottish society has left for dead the soundbite digging from the politicians on both sides of the argument.  There’s an old saying if you leave a Scotsman alone on a desert island, he’ll either start a church or an argument – and whilst I haven’t detected any new religious factions (yet – there are still 3 weeks to go) – the noise of the rolling argument is both deafening and invigorating.

I hope for a huge turnout.  It seems unthinkable to me that anyone within Scotland would not take the chance to at least voice their democratic opinion on what seems to me to be the single biggest issue in a generation – or more.  This is not a subject on which anyone can afford to let their vote pass unused.

On the issues, many of them can be argued either way, and neither camp has (for me) put forward anything solid on really any issue.  The ‘yes’ camp has failed to explicitly show how it will be funded, and the ‘no’ camp has failed to show why Scotland would be the only non-viable small European state.  How much oil is left?  You will find an expert who will tell you anything.  The pound, the EU, let no one kid you these issues would not be resolved.  Nuclear weapons, I have no time for - the kind of "protection" and jobs we do not need.  Salmond, and the SNP. I'm not be a big fan, but if they were to deliver independence, they would be free to make their case for election thereafter – and the electorate would then be free to take them or leave them.  Independence is not about the SNP.  It’s about Scotland.

I hope for a yes vote.  I have lots of small reasons, but only two very large ones.

I distrust politicians, but they are predictable.  They are susceptible to all kinds of influence.  For this reason, I’d like to have as much power as possible, as close to the people as possible.  I believe that arms can be twisted harder in Holyrood than they can be in Westminister – the critical mass is smaller, the screw can be turned harder, easier.  Let’s bring the politicians to where they are less comfortable – close to us.

Most crucially for me – what it shouldn’t mean to be Scottish.  The unhealthy dislike of “England” – often verbalised - perhaps an inferiority complex.  A built-in, taught, indoctrinated attitude.  (I blame the predominantly English media for a lot of this, but that’s another day’s work).  For too long Scotland has both been dictated to and held back from deciding matters on our own, for ourselves.  In some ways treated like a child, and as a result we’ve maintained a childlike attitude.

Perhaps, we’ve secretly liked this endless stalemate.  Devoid of responsibility, full of opinions but secretly hoping nobody ever calls our bluff.

It’s time to grow up – to leave the house, pay the bills, do our own washing.  We can be a fairer, more equal society.

The inclination - the "democracy of the people" - has always been there - now we need to deliver ourselves the power to implement that which we believe in.

Noone should think this will be easy - but there’s nothing unviable about Scotland, if we have the courage and the desire to take responsibility for making it so.

Scotland in November

Glencoe is my favourite car journey on earth.

Last week I was able to make the journey for the first time in several years, on a crisp November day that blended blinding winter sunshine with thick blankets of fog.

It was an unusual route for me, not starting from Edinburgh or Glasgow. Instead it was north from Fife, cutting west at Perth on the Loch Earn road. Socked in fog all the way down the valley with nothing but the babbling stream for company, we finally emerged after St Fillans down the side of Loch Earn itself into the blazing sunshine.

Looking south across Loch Earn, with the late morning sun lighting up trailing wisps of fog.


Turning back the way we came, this is east down Loch Earn with St Fillans eclipsed, and a think finger of fog floating west over the loch.


Back in the car, and further on we’re back into the fog, and then north through Crianlarich with the amazing scenery hidden behind an impenetrable veil. A few miles on at Tyndrum, the perishingly cold car park at the obligatory Green Welly Stop is just starting to hint that there are hills around.


The edge of Tyndrum sees the weather break again, and up here it turns out to be freezing fog, with all the trees within eyesight encased in a dense layer of frost.


Plants closer to the ground have really been getting the treatment.


Free of the fog and making the turn for Glencoe, there’s time for one last look back at Tyndrum, sitting encased in the cold.


Here, nearly three hours in, the proper journey begins. Dragging up the endless hill from Tyndrum, you immediately feel tiny skirting the immense wall that is Beinn Dorain. Then it’s on to a crest, cruising past Loch Tulla, and the train line departs on a massive detour (it can’t make the grades to come) – clanking across the little bridge, a sweeping bend, and now we’re really clambering hard up the side of a slope, until we reach the viewpoint short of the top.

Jumping out here (seriously windy, but not as cold as it was), the view is epic back towards Beinn Dorain and the loch.


This view always reminds me that I had the motorbike through Glencoe once – I remember driving back towards Tyndrum, waiting forever to get past a long line of cars and carvans, and finally making it past the last of them on the hill further down from this viewpoint – sweeping around the bend at the bottom, and then charging out ahead of everyone, thudding across the bridge (lower left in the picture above), and whistling away across the moor alone. Still the three best minutes of my motorcycling life.


Back in the car and beyond the viewpoint, the top of the hill takes you on to Rannoch Moor. No matter how many times I come over that rise, it is always like landing on the moon – one of the most desolate, bleak and awe-inspiring places I know.

A few miles across the moor and Buachaille Etive Mòr rears up - a heaving cone of rock marking the start of Glencoe proper.


The road skates around Buachaille Etive Mòr, and into the glen.


Glencoe itself is the most monstrous sweeping glen with the road taking cars like toys through it, hemmed in by mountains that become closer and more claustrophobic the further you head west. It’s a daunting and imposing place.


As you come to the most narrow section (the actual pass of Glencoe), you tread carefully down the hairpins and then you are out, easing down across the valley floor to the Atlantic and on to the shore of Loch Leven. Here’s Loch Leven as the sun comes up on a beautiful November morning, the mountains of Glencoe simmering in the clouds.


Often, we stop here – but this time it's pastures further west on our mind, so on we went. A few miles further on, the Corran Ferry plies endlessly forwards and backwards, bridging Loch Linnhe for those that want to head to Ardnamurchan.


If you ever get the chance, you do want to head to the empty and mighty spaces of Ardnamurchan. Here’s the Corran lighthouse at sunset, with the mountains of Ardnamurchan behind.


Past Fort William and the brooding hulk of Ben Nevis, the Road to the Isles begins properly, darting west to Glenfinnan at the ridiculously scenic head of Loch Sheil.

Further on, you move up and over hills again, passing Loch Eilt – which was so still on our mid-day return trip, it was like polished glass.



A few miles further on, we’re finally descending out of the hills for the last time to the sea again, where rough and wild rocky countryside meet several miles of the most amazing tiny silver sandy beaches, and the small islands of Eigg and Rùm peeking out of the rain offshore offset the brooding cloud-shrouded presence in the distance of the Cuillin on Skye.




And here, finally, is where my new favourite hotel is.

Caledonia

Certain adverts from your youth stick with you - and none stuck with me more than this one.

Notwithstanding the fact that Tennents is drinkable but pretty ropey lager, years later, this ad still sums up pretty much how I feel every time I'm in London - and as the guy walks out on Princes Street under the castle, it sums up pretty much how I feel every time I get back to Scotland.

Beyond reasonable doubt in Scotland

Today, the Scottish Justice Secretary announced that Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi, the man jailed for the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 was to be released “on compassionate grounds”. After serving years in jails in Scotland al-Megrahi, who has terminal cancer, will fly home to die.

Who coordinates how public discourse is shifted? The news of his release happened only today, but already it is well established by the media that we are not to discuss whether he committed the crime in the first place, and we are not to discuss whether he should have been imprisoned. We are not to discuss the huge holes in the evidence, and we are not to discuss the fact that even a cursory reading of the judges verdict would have led you to believe that this man should never have been convicted.

The only question we are apparently supposed to discuss is: should this dying man have been released “on compassionate grounds”?

To assess how reliable the conviction was, it’s instructive to go back over excerpts from the transcript of the original trial verdict.

One of the key factors in the conviction of al-Megrahi was his identification by a Maltese shopkeeper called Tony Gauci. Gauci gave evidence that al-Megrahi purchased clothing from his shop, later allegedly found in close proximity to bomb components from flight 103. From the trial verdict (with my emphasis):

A major factor in the case against the first accused is the identification evidence of Mr Gauci. For the reasons we have already given, we accept the reliability of Mr Gauci on this matter, while recognising that this is not an unequivocal identification

In other words, the judges acknowledge the crucial importance of the identification by Tony Gauci (a Maltese Shopkeeper) of the accused, and then go on to say that while it is not an “unequivocal” identification, the judges accept its reliability. And why do they accept its reliability? From earlier in the judgement, they explain the sequence of events (edited here) with Mr Gauci that leads to them judging this identification as reliable:

Gauci is first interviewed by police on 1st September 1989, where he describes the gentleman he sold clothes to as 6 feet tall or greater, with a big chest and a large head. On 13th September. Gauci clarifies the man’s age as “about 50”. On 14th September, Gauci is shown 19 photographs, and he indicates that one of the photographs (which was not al-Megrahi) is of a man who appears “similar” to the man who purchased the clothes, but is too young. On 26th September, Gauci is shown 24 more photographs, and he indicates that the man he sold the clothes to is not present, but that one man in the photographs has the same shape of face and style of hair, and three other photographs are of men of the correct age. On 6th December, Gauci is shown another selection of photographs, and does not identify anyone from them. Some time around the end of 1989 or the beginning of 1990, Gauci’s brother shows him a newspaper article about the Lockerbie disaster, which contains the word “bomber” across a photograph of the wreckage of Pan Am 103. In the article are also images of two men – one of which was also marked with the word “bomber”. Gauci thought that one of the photographs showed the man who had purchased the clothes from his shop – the man he identified in the paper was Abo Talb. On 10th September 1990 (a year after the first interviews), Gauci is again shown 39 photographs, and does not identify anyone from these pictures – stating that he has never seen a photograph of the man who bought the clothing. On 15th February 1991 (a year and a half after the initial interviews), Gauci is shown 12 photographs, and says none of them are of the correct age. When asked by police to look carefully and allow for age difference, he pointed out one of the photographs, saying the face was “similar to the man who bought the clothing”. He also said “It’s been a long time now, and I can only say that this photograph 8 resembles the man who bought the clothing, but it is younger”. The policeman concerned (DCI Bell) later gave evidence that the person in photograph 8 was al-Megrahi.

So this is the eyewitness that is “reliable” in the opinion of the judges – an eyewitness who after at least 6 separate interviews and identification sessions, and being shown over 94 photographs over a period of 17 months, is only able to say that a single face is “similar”, and “resembles” a man who bought clothing in his shop. On this account, the entire case hangs.

So how were the judges able to take this “reliable” account, and plug it in to a watertight prosecution case?

From the judgement again (with my emphasis):

From his [Gauci’s] evidence it could be inferred that the first accused was the person who bought the clothing which surrounded the explosive device. We have already accepted that the date of purchase of the clothing was 7 December 1988, and on that day the first accused arrived in Malta where he stayed until 9 December. He was staying at the Holiday Inn, Sliema, which is close to Mary’s House. If he was the purchaser of this miscellaneous collection of garments, it is not difficult to infer that he must have been aware of the purpose for which they were being bought. We accept the evidence that he was a member of the JSO, occupying posts of fairly high rank. One of these posts was head of airline security, from which it could be inferred that he would be aware at least in general terms of the nature of security precautions at airports from or to which LAA operated… It is possible to infer that this visit under a false name the night before the explosive device was planted at Luqa, followed by his departure for Tripoli the following morning at or about the time the device must have been planted, was a visit connected with the planting of the device.

In other words, al-Megrahi could be the person that purchased the clothing. And he was staying in Malta, close to the clothes shop. And if he bought the clothes that ended up in the bomb, he probably knew about the bomb. He might know about general security arrangements at “airports”. It’s possible his visit to Malta was connected with the planting of the device [bomb].

Do the words “beyond reasonable doubt” keep ringing in the ears of anyone except me?

Amsterdam, Paris, Beer, and Genius.

Having just returned from an insanely chaotic weekend in Amsterdam, following Scotland amidst thousands of Tartan Army, it seems like a great time to post this incredible video compilation of Scotland in France, 2007, and particularly the journey of the Dublin tartan army to get there.

If I live to 80, I'll be unlikely to ever see a better Scottish goal.

Torridon in winter

I've always had something about the Highlands of Scotland, and it's getting stronger as I get older. Particularly the West Highlands - there is no place on earth like them. Nothing beats travelling across the bleak majesty of Rannoch Moor, the heart-stopping scenery of Glencoe, and the wild silent spaces of Ardnamurchan.

Torridon is another place I'm fascinated by, although I haven't made it there yet. Mostly, it's the mighty Liathach that for some reason draws me there, but there's something about the whole area that just seems and sounds magical.

Here's a great video of a day driving through Torridon in the winter. It's so reminiscent of Scotland it's difficult to explain.

Even the start, driving behind the gritter in the snow (something I haven't had to consider any of the years I've been in Ireland), the slush on the road. There's something magical in this video, the mixing of the amazing scenery with the almighty tune (Highland Cathedral, which only lasts the first three minutes here, but almost always nearly reduces me to tears when it's done right).

The stillness of the loch, the trees, mountains and river at 1:01, the scene at 1:40 with the huge mountains standing silent as the car passes like a bug, then when they pull in to the glen, with that snowbound road twisting all the way down to Loch Maree...