It seems like yesterday that I was sitting in Harry’s Bar in Venice sipping a ridiculously expensive Bellini and tipping a nod to the good Lord for giving me the wherewithal to pay the eye-popping bill. And today, in a rural village in Hungary, I heard the sad, sad, news. Read more
I saw a vapour trail in the sky last week. A rarity these days. The white streak across the blue sky reminded me of a series of paintings by Budapest-based Scottish artist Jim Urquhart. Minus the buildings of course. His paintings have buildings. I was perfecting what the Japanese call boketto – the art of gazing vacantly into the distance without thinking. All I could see were trees. All I could hear were birds. All I wanted to do was be on that plane. Read more
It’s been a while, thank God, since I’ve felt the black cloud of depression, the sort that that requires doctors and medication. My heart goes out to those who are battling the beast during this pandemic or living with those who are. It can’t be easy. Sure, I have days that start and finish in nothingness with nothing much of note happening in between. Those are the days I have to remind myself to be grateful that I woke up at all and that what I woke to could be a helluva lot worse. I have nothing to complain about. Nothing. At. All. Read more
My mother has a bit of a reputation about the village. No doubt still considered a blow-in by those who were born to the place, she’s actively involved in all sorts. And of the many words used to describe her, active is high on the list. I don’t know where she gets her energy from – I missed that gene. Read more
I’m beside myself with an enthusiasm I lost sight of about six weeks ago when the great stay-at-home started here in Hungary. Last night I sat through two hours of 11 incredible performances that wrung me dry. I feel a little like a teatowel that’s been lobbed around a washing machine on a slow spin. Read more
Meet Maryjane. For at least the last 12 or so years, she’s lived in a yurt in a field in France with her family. Instead of spending her life being ‘told what, when and how to learn, followed by years of employment being told what to do, just for the privilege of having somewhere to live and enough to eat’, Maryjane left England, moved to France, built a yurt and chose to live with nature. Read more
A couple of villages over sits the village of Zalavár. Zala is the name of the Hungarian county we live in and vár is Hungarian for castle. Back in the day, many centuries ago, Zalavár was a metropolis, boasting a monastery, a convent, a brewery, and a castle of course. Today, it’s one of a string of villages that loop around the lesser-known Hungarian lake, the Kis-Balaton. Read more
With so much being written about COVID-19, there’s very little left to say. Yet writing about anything else seems inconceivable, as the virus consumes our thoughts, restricts our movements, and turns our worlds upside down. Read more
Each day this week, I’ve posted on Facebook a version of a hymn I first heard at mass last Sunday. Judging by people’s reactions, it’s an old familiar for many. Who knew. It’s often attributed as an American spiritual: the original author is unknown and it possibly combines Afro-American and white-spiritual traditions. A version of the song was first published in Old Plantation Hymns (Barton, 1899). Read more
His dad was a toolmaker, His mam was a homemaker. He was a soldier in the Vietnam War. He worked as a mailman when he came home. It was Chicago. It was the early 1960s. His name was John Prine. Read more
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