RCAHMS (that's the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historic Monuments of Scotland) are having a celebration. Not a celebration with a mobile disco and draught Stella, but one more focused on Scotland's past, and their library of historical images.
You still have time to vote for your favourite image of the most treasured places of Scotland.
http://www.treasuredplaces.org.uk/index.php
The winning image will be celebrated by a poem written by Valerie Gillies.
(It will then taken on an all inclusive cruise to the Cayman Islands, where it will meet other images of treasured places from around the world and compete in a "one-image-takes-all" superquiz for the grand prize of one night with Bryan Ferry.)
I would have posted this sooner, but I've been REALLY busy. There are some interesting images here, especially the Rosslyn Chapel one, which everyone should vote for.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Italy
Last week my partner and I took a break, going to stay with Peter Lavery, my UK editor, and Simon Kavanagh, my agent, at Peter's villa in Tuscany. Ostensibly a working holiday -- we would hammer out the dents in Penny Devil/Iron Angel -- but for the first two days I slept.
The 17th century farmhouse overlooks rolling Tuscan landscape dotted with cypress trees, ancient terracotta brick villages, castles and monasteries. October sunshine slopes across low hills, olive groves, and shady oak forests where truffles grow. The herb garden smells of lavender. And the hammock slung from pillars in the open air barn makes a comfortable bed for burnt-out-utterly-knackered-peely-wally writers.
To allow me to revise book two, my Iron Angel manuscript was supposed to arrive on the Saturday. Unfortunately, the Italian Postal Service -- God bless them -- don't deliver at the weekend. So for the first time in more months than I can remember, I had a couple of days to contemplate the work ahead. The local wine was about a euro per litre, so contemplation wasn't too heavy on the wallet.
One day we drove to Florence. Like Paris or Prague, Florence is too pretty for its own good. Too much art, architecture and history attracts crowds of camera-wielding bastards like me. My Merchant Ivory induced expectations of church bells ringing out over a dusty maze of lanes where ladies swan around with white parasols and old men sit in the shade outside cafes sipping grappa was, quite frankly, shattered. Four lane roads funnel traffic into the centre and out again. Packs of tourists in shorts wander round like some vast McDonald's burger-army, eating up the pizzas, gulping down the coffee, and framing everything in little LCD screens.
Yep, I'm one of them.
Even so, the sheer richness of the cultural heritage here is enough to make any visitor feel a twinge of jealousy. This isn't just art. It's art by Michelangelo and Botticelli. If I was Italian, I'd be very proud.
The 17th century farmhouse overlooks rolling Tuscan landscape dotted with cypress trees, ancient terracotta brick villages, castles and monasteries. October sunshine slopes across low hills, olive groves, and shady oak forests where truffles grow. The herb garden smells of lavender. And the hammock slung from pillars in the open air barn makes a comfortable bed for burnt-out-utterly-knackered-peely-wally writers.
To allow me to revise book two, my Iron Angel manuscript was supposed to arrive on the Saturday. Unfortunately, the Italian Postal Service -- God bless them -- don't deliver at the weekend. So for the first time in more months than I can remember, I had a couple of days to contemplate the work ahead. The local wine was about a euro per litre, so contemplation wasn't too heavy on the wallet.
One day we drove to Florence. Like Paris or Prague, Florence is too pretty for its own good. Too much art, architecture and history attracts crowds of camera-wielding bastards like me. My Merchant Ivory induced expectations of church bells ringing out over a dusty maze of lanes where ladies swan around with white parasols and old men sit in the shade outside cafes sipping grappa was, quite frankly, shattered. Four lane roads funnel traffic into the centre and out again. Packs of tourists in shorts wander round like some vast McDonald's burger-army, eating up the pizzas, gulping down the coffee, and framing everything in little LCD screens.
Yep, I'm one of them.
Even so, the sheer richness of the cultural heritage here is enough to make any visitor feel a twinge of jealousy. This isn't just art. It's art by Michelangelo and Botticelli. If I was Italian, I'd be very proud.
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