The Royal Mile was more like a river than a road. All of us had our hoods up against the rain, my own waterproof jacket had seen me through far worse storms than this, but my jeans were soaked to the bone. A couple of the girls had had the foresight to bring umbrellas with them, or maybe they just existed permanently in the oversized suitcases they carried around with them be it raining or not, but regardless the rest of us all crowded underneath and tried to keep warm. I checked my watch. 9:20 in the morning, and the sun might as well have not existed.
There is no experience quite like flyering at the fringe. In the day the mile is a mele of bodies, a heaving, vibrant, fantastic frenetic throng of bodies, and models, and creatures, and ideas. There are so many different shows on offer that it seems impossible that they should all be crammed into so small an area. The street is lined with groups of dancers, jugglers, musicians and magicians. Acapella groups sing out from the advertising stages, crowds gather around street performers in their dozens, and over all of it are the shouts of advertisement. A hundred different shows all vying for your interest. Flyers are thrust at you from every which way, some are bland but most are bright. Each comes accompanied by a man or lady desperate to start a conversation with you.
If you flyer yourself you quickly learn what does and doesn't work. Nothing works. Only some things don't work less than other things don't work. You quickly learn that anyone who stops and agrees to chat probably wants to give you a flyer rather than take one. Most people storm on by. Costumes don't help, being in character doesn't help, holding a banner the size of Switzerland merely helps you to blend in. So difficult is it to get rid of flyers that many people resort to clever deceptions. I once saw someone standing on a bollard straining to pick up the flyers he'd dropped. When a passer-by picked them up to help he was gone. Five minutes later I spotted him at the other end of the mile, standing on a bollard, straining to pick up some flyers.
The rain pattered heavily on my hood, the umbrella only serving to deflect more water in my direction. There was almost no movement on the mile. The posters that covered the pillars were sodden top to bottom and all but unreadable, the few people that were out and about hurried past without so much as a glance in my direction. I felt the flyers in my pocket, rolled tightly to prevent them getting folded. Today was going to be a challenge.
20 Jun 2011
17 Jun 2011
A Cable Car on an Austrian Mountain
My fingers slip on the cold metal rail. Opposite me sit two men of middling height, middling age, German I think, and between us a boy of ten or so, nose pressed to the window, staring out quietly into the thickening cloud. The cable car shudders beneath me and my hand automatically grips the rail again as a pylon looms into view. I can feel the pull on the cable above me, the whirring of gears, the cart swaying slightly. I grind my teeth as the pylon moves overhead, there’s a bounce and a chattering of cogs and then as quickly as it came the pylon goes again, disappearing below us in silence and all I can hear is the patter of rain on the window.
The younger of the two men says something to the child and beckons him over, at a guess I’d say he’s the father. He picks up the boy and sits him on his lap.
“You are English?” he looks at me, his accent slight but noticeable, definitely German. I can only nod, my hand still pressed to the rail. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small digital camera and waves it in my direction. “You don’t mind?”
I force my hand away from the metal, the cart’s stopped swaying anyway. “No,” I say, finding my voice, “I don’t mind.”
The camera is a queer European design, not a make I’ve heard of. The shutter makes a dull metallic thud when I take the picture. It comes out blurred so I try again, hands unsteadily holding the camera as close to me as possible while I try to cram both men and the boy into the picture. Through the window behind there is nothing but white, the camera has covered it in zebra lines on the display, but I assume that doesn’t matter. Thud. This one looks ok, forced smiles, too many teeth. I hand the camera back to a murmured thanks. The father looks at the picture and I can tell he doesn’t like it, but that’s ok, he won’t ask me to take it again.
I turn my attentions out of the window. Raindrops cling to the outside of the glass, shivering in the cold. In all directions there’s nothing but cloud. Occasionally the mountain rises into view below us, all muted greens, greys and browns, desolate muddy tracks winding their way down the jagged slopes. Grass only appearing in small patches up here, if at all, a stunted tree claws its way out from the hillside, twisted branches thick against the wind. But when the mountain drops away the cloud returns and all images slip away like ghosts, half remembered memories.
I turn away and close my eyes, tight. Deep steady breaths. I concentrate on the sound of the rain, waves of dull knockings on the side of cart, irregular beats, ebbing and flowing. Beneath the rain I can hear the creaking of the metal cable straining in the wind.
I concentrate on the sounds inside the cart. I can hear the breathing of the family opposite, two deep rattles and one quick and light. The child’s waterproof trousers make a plastic rustle as he shuffles on his fathers lap. The other man clears his throat, he sounds like he smokes.
A sudden trill of tin piano chords makes me jump. Ger-Man of unknown relation is fumbling in his pocket. I take the chance to look him up and down. He’s older than the father, possibly a little taller as well. His hair is just turning grey from jet black, but most of it is hidden, rammed under a thick beige woollen hat. He pulls out an old phone, a Nokia something, still blaring out one of twenty standard jazz ringtones that get pushed out onto all phones around the world. He glances at me as he puts the phone to his ear, our eyes meet, and I look away. The conversation is in German, though I recognise a couple of words. I try not to listen because I can see the man looking me up and down out of the corner of his eye. The cart feels awkward, almost like I’m intruding on what was meant to be a family trip.
The wind whips again, the cable sways, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief as the cable car station dissolves out of the cloud. I zip up my coat; pull the gloves from my pocket and stand, waiting by the door. It takes another two minutes, but the door finally opens and I step out of the rocking car onto blissful concrete. The air is cold, but the ground is solid and I take a moment just to savour it.
Behind me the German family bustle towards the exit, hurrying to get the most out of their time on top of the mountain. I wait for them to leave before I follow, I flip up my hood, and, with a nod of thanks to the attendant, step out onto rock.
I immediately feel the cold. The air on top of the mountain is damp with drizzle and cloud, shrouded in white. I can’t even see the German family anymore; they’ve wandered off into the cloud. They can’t be more than a few meters away but they’ve disappeared from view, and all sounds seem to drift into the ground up here, muffled and whipped away by the wind so that all at once, I am utterly alone. A couple of loose stones slip beneath my feet as I begin to walk the short distance to the peak and they make a sharp clattering noise as they slip over the boulder terrain, every noise more sudden for the lack of anything else.
A radio cackle makes me start and I reach to my pocket. “Yeah, I’m here” I say, breath misting on the mouthpiece.
“Guy down here says we’re all set for the run if you are mate.” The voice is that of James Donahue, a genius they say, Tech-know magazines man of the year, inventor of the ICR encryption key, in the employ of three European Governments and only 26. A genius. “We need you to find the antenna and re-align it, it should be the long pointy thing on the array.” A patronising little prick.
“Hold on give me a minute, I only just got here.” I lengthen my stride into the cloud, not really seeing where I’m going, just heading upwards because I know that the radio beacons should be positioned, if not on the peak, then near it. Putting them anywhere else would be stupid.
“Hurry up if you could mate. It’s cold out here.” A whine which I ignore. My own jeans are clinging to my skin, damp and clammy. They don’t feel cold but I shiver nonetheless. I’m wearing five layers but the wind seems to cut through them as if they never existed. The cloud rolls over.
The peak levels out slightly and the rock is suddenly solid and flat, I've hit upon a trail of stairs, man-made to the array. I pick up the pace, sure footed now I don't have to worry about the mountain carving away and slinging me underhanded into the abyss. The steps were probably made for skiers originally, I find myself imagining the hoards of winter travellers that must climb these steps on a cold, but clear winters day. This is a famous peak, but not today. Today it's just another spine of cold limestone lost in the sky.
The cloud rolls again and in a brief patch of clear I can see the array ahead, a thin wire mesh fence circling the base, no security really, but enough to keep the public away in the winter season. I bound the last few steps up to it and pause to catch my breath.
"Right, I'm here." I fumble in my pocket for the keys I was given. The wire mesh trembles in the wind. The cloud has thickened again, I can't see the steps I walked up seconds ago. Cold metal slips between my fingers. The gate on the mesh fence is padlocked with a heavy duty lock of an industrial breed. Again, more for show than anything. Anyone who really wanted to get to the array could just scale the fence. But then who would want to get to the array? The lock was enough to keep out the odd teenage vandal that might get it into their head to come looking, everyone else couldn't give a crap.
The lock is stiff, it hasn't been opened in a while. When I finally force it, it makes a harsh metallic scrape as it slides open. I force my way through the gate and hang the lock back on the mesh behind me. I can see the main Arial on the far side of the array about half way up. It looks easy enough to adjust.
"You ready then?" I say into the radio.
"I've been ready for 20 minutes already, get on with it." Testy testy.
I reach up to the antenna and tilt it gently. It too is stiff from the cold, I edge myself around to get a better grip and my fingers slip on the cold metal rail. I can feel the chill seeping through my skin. I reach for the radio.
"Better or worse?" I say in my best opticians impression. There's a pause on the other end.
"Neither, we still have a fair degree of chop here." Donahues voice sounds thin and irritating over the radio. "How much did you move it? A millimetre? Don't fanny about, give the damn thing a tug." I let a curse go under my breath. Putting the radio down and using both hands I give the antenna a heave towards me.
"How about now?" A pause again. The wind howls.
"Better,"
"Excellent,"
"But worse." I sigh. Nothing like a cryptic response when you're slowly freezing from the inside out.
"In what way better?" I say,
"I can tell you moved the antenna." A silence. That's apparently all I'm getting.
"Bloody brilliant." I give the antenna a shove back to where it was, and then a bit further. "Now?" Silence from the other end. I wait, rubbing my hands together, trying to keep my fingers warm. "Donahue? Look it was you telling me to hurry up a minute ago." A hiss of static.
"Sorry. I was just adjusting something our end." A pause. "Right, that's better. A lot better."
"How did this thing get out of line in the first place?" I ask.
"Don't know, don't care. Gave me an excellent excuse to try out our new equipment though so I didn't ask any questions." I can hear tapping on the other end of the line. "Right Richard, that's good enough, I think we can give this a run."
"Excellent." I say. From my pocket I pull a pair of wire cutters and lock them around the column of wires in the array. It doesn't require much pressure to sever them all. "Let's get this show on the road."
The younger of the two men says something to the child and beckons him over, at a guess I’d say he’s the father. He picks up the boy and sits him on his lap.
“You are English?” he looks at me, his accent slight but noticeable, definitely German. I can only nod, my hand still pressed to the rail. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small digital camera and waves it in my direction. “You don’t mind?”
I force my hand away from the metal, the cart’s stopped swaying anyway. “No,” I say, finding my voice, “I don’t mind.”
The camera is a queer European design, not a make I’ve heard of. The shutter makes a dull metallic thud when I take the picture. It comes out blurred so I try again, hands unsteadily holding the camera as close to me as possible while I try to cram both men and the boy into the picture. Through the window behind there is nothing but white, the camera has covered it in zebra lines on the display, but I assume that doesn’t matter. Thud. This one looks ok, forced smiles, too many teeth. I hand the camera back to a murmured thanks. The father looks at the picture and I can tell he doesn’t like it, but that’s ok, he won’t ask me to take it again.
I turn my attentions out of the window. Raindrops cling to the outside of the glass, shivering in the cold. In all directions there’s nothing but cloud. Occasionally the mountain rises into view below us, all muted greens, greys and browns, desolate muddy tracks winding their way down the jagged slopes. Grass only appearing in small patches up here, if at all, a stunted tree claws its way out from the hillside, twisted branches thick against the wind. But when the mountain drops away the cloud returns and all images slip away like ghosts, half remembered memories.
I turn away and close my eyes, tight. Deep steady breaths. I concentrate on the sound of the rain, waves of dull knockings on the side of cart, irregular beats, ebbing and flowing. Beneath the rain I can hear the creaking of the metal cable straining in the wind.
I concentrate on the sounds inside the cart. I can hear the breathing of the family opposite, two deep rattles and one quick and light. The child’s waterproof trousers make a plastic rustle as he shuffles on his fathers lap. The other man clears his throat, he sounds like he smokes.
A sudden trill of tin piano chords makes me jump. Ger-Man of unknown relation is fumbling in his pocket. I take the chance to look him up and down. He’s older than the father, possibly a little taller as well. His hair is just turning grey from jet black, but most of it is hidden, rammed under a thick beige woollen hat. He pulls out an old phone, a Nokia something, still blaring out one of twenty standard jazz ringtones that get pushed out onto all phones around the world. He glances at me as he puts the phone to his ear, our eyes meet, and I look away. The conversation is in German, though I recognise a couple of words. I try not to listen because I can see the man looking me up and down out of the corner of his eye. The cart feels awkward, almost like I’m intruding on what was meant to be a family trip.
The wind whips again, the cable sways, and I breathe a quiet sigh of relief as the cable car station dissolves out of the cloud. I zip up my coat; pull the gloves from my pocket and stand, waiting by the door. It takes another two minutes, but the door finally opens and I step out of the rocking car onto blissful concrete. The air is cold, but the ground is solid and I take a moment just to savour it.
Behind me the German family bustle towards the exit, hurrying to get the most out of their time on top of the mountain. I wait for them to leave before I follow, I flip up my hood, and, with a nod of thanks to the attendant, step out onto rock.
I immediately feel the cold. The air on top of the mountain is damp with drizzle and cloud, shrouded in white. I can’t even see the German family anymore; they’ve wandered off into the cloud. They can’t be more than a few meters away but they’ve disappeared from view, and all sounds seem to drift into the ground up here, muffled and whipped away by the wind so that all at once, I am utterly alone. A couple of loose stones slip beneath my feet as I begin to walk the short distance to the peak and they make a sharp clattering noise as they slip over the boulder terrain, every noise more sudden for the lack of anything else.
A radio cackle makes me start and I reach to my pocket. “Yeah, I’m here” I say, breath misting on the mouthpiece.
“Guy down here says we’re all set for the run if you are mate.” The voice is that of James Donahue, a genius they say, Tech-know magazines man of the year, inventor of the ICR encryption key, in the employ of three European Governments and only 26. A genius. “We need you to find the antenna and re-align it, it should be the long pointy thing on the array.” A patronising little prick.
“Hold on give me a minute, I only just got here.” I lengthen my stride into the cloud, not really seeing where I’m going, just heading upwards because I know that the radio beacons should be positioned, if not on the peak, then near it. Putting them anywhere else would be stupid.
“Hurry up if you could mate. It’s cold out here.” A whine which I ignore. My own jeans are clinging to my skin, damp and clammy. They don’t feel cold but I shiver nonetheless. I’m wearing five layers but the wind seems to cut through them as if they never existed. The cloud rolls over.
The peak levels out slightly and the rock is suddenly solid and flat, I've hit upon a trail of stairs, man-made to the array. I pick up the pace, sure footed now I don't have to worry about the mountain carving away and slinging me underhanded into the abyss. The steps were probably made for skiers originally, I find myself imagining the hoards of winter travellers that must climb these steps on a cold, but clear winters day. This is a famous peak, but not today. Today it's just another spine of cold limestone lost in the sky.
The cloud rolls again and in a brief patch of clear I can see the array ahead, a thin wire mesh fence circling the base, no security really, but enough to keep the public away in the winter season. I bound the last few steps up to it and pause to catch my breath.
"Right, I'm here." I fumble in my pocket for the keys I was given. The wire mesh trembles in the wind. The cloud has thickened again, I can't see the steps I walked up seconds ago. Cold metal slips between my fingers. The gate on the mesh fence is padlocked with a heavy duty lock of an industrial breed. Again, more for show than anything. Anyone who really wanted to get to the array could just scale the fence. But then who would want to get to the array? The lock was enough to keep out the odd teenage vandal that might get it into their head to come looking, everyone else couldn't give a crap.
The lock is stiff, it hasn't been opened in a while. When I finally force it, it makes a harsh metallic scrape as it slides open. I force my way through the gate and hang the lock back on the mesh behind me. I can see the main Arial on the far side of the array about half way up. It looks easy enough to adjust.
"You ready then?" I say into the radio.
"I've been ready for 20 minutes already, get on with it." Testy testy.
I reach up to the antenna and tilt it gently. It too is stiff from the cold, I edge myself around to get a better grip and my fingers slip on the cold metal rail. I can feel the chill seeping through my skin. I reach for the radio.
"Better or worse?" I say in my best opticians impression. There's a pause on the other end.
"Neither, we still have a fair degree of chop here." Donahues voice sounds thin and irritating over the radio. "How much did you move it? A millimetre? Don't fanny about, give the damn thing a tug." I let a curse go under my breath. Putting the radio down and using both hands I give the antenna a heave towards me.
"How about now?" A pause again. The wind howls.
"Better,"
"Excellent,"
"But worse." I sigh. Nothing like a cryptic response when you're slowly freezing from the inside out.
"In what way better?" I say,
"I can tell you moved the antenna." A silence. That's apparently all I'm getting.
"Bloody brilliant." I give the antenna a shove back to where it was, and then a bit further. "Now?" Silence from the other end. I wait, rubbing my hands together, trying to keep my fingers warm. "Donahue? Look it was you telling me to hurry up a minute ago." A hiss of static.
"Sorry. I was just adjusting something our end." A pause. "Right, that's better. A lot better."
"How did this thing get out of line in the first place?" I ask.
"Don't know, don't care. Gave me an excellent excuse to try out our new equipment though so I didn't ask any questions." I can hear tapping on the other end of the line. "Right Richard, that's good enough, I think we can give this a run."
"Excellent." I say. From my pocket I pull a pair of wire cutters and lock them around the column of wires in the array. It doesn't require much pressure to sever them all. "Let's get this show on the road."
16 Jun 2011
Rain over the Fields
The rut quickly became a divot, then a stream, then a river. The hard pressed tractor tracks disappeared into the mud and all trace of summer was lost in a cataclysm of thunder, driving rain and the violent whipping of the crop. Hanna wiped the rain from her eyes, tucked her hair back under her hood and squinted into the distance as another flash of lightning tugged at the edges of the sky. From somewhere in the swaying mass of maize she heard Molly's excited bark, carried on the wind, almost lost beneath the rolling of the thunder.
She fumbled in her pocket for the dog whistle. She had no idea if it was going to be loud enough to cut through the storm, it was only a cheap one bought from the local pet store. Plastic and tiny.
"Molly!" she shouted. Her voice sounded small, carried away an inch from her face. "Molly!"
Her fingers closed around the whistle and she gave it a long blast. She heard barking again in the distance, further away than before. In retrospect she should have taken the longer route home, should have stuck to the roads. But the rain was never this bad at this time of year, it was July for God's sake. Hanna glanced around her, there was no-one else in sight, no-one else on the path to help. She squinted back over the fields and thought she could just make out a silhouette on the far side. The shadow of a dog just visible as it occasionally bounced above the level of the maize.
"Oh hell." said Hanna, "Molly!" She started at a jog into the field, the maize instantly soaking her jeans, sodden to the knee. Overhead the clouds were swirling, getting darker, denser. A sudden booming of thunder rocked over the fields, a few seconds and the flash. Right overhead. Now that Hanna was in the field she couldn't see Molly any more, nor could she hear her barking, the rustling of the maize filled the air.
"Molly!" The raindrops were heavy now, she could feel the weight of water on her hood. Her hair plastered itself in front of her eyes time and again, blurring her vision, and the crop moved angrily, as if it were trying to rip itself from the ground. The way it moved was unreal, alive. All of a sudden the path behind her had disappeared into the rain.
"Molly!" She gave another long blast on the whistle, and thought she saw something move ahead of her. Just for a second a shadow shifting against the seeds, but it was impossible to tell for sure.
"Molly!" She waited.
She fumbled in her pocket for the dog whistle. She had no idea if it was going to be loud enough to cut through the storm, it was only a cheap one bought from the local pet store. Plastic and tiny.
"Molly!" she shouted. Her voice sounded small, carried away an inch from her face. "Molly!"
Her fingers closed around the whistle and she gave it a long blast. She heard barking again in the distance, further away than before. In retrospect she should have taken the longer route home, should have stuck to the roads. But the rain was never this bad at this time of year, it was July for God's sake. Hanna glanced around her, there was no-one else in sight, no-one else on the path to help. She squinted back over the fields and thought she could just make out a silhouette on the far side. The shadow of a dog just visible as it occasionally bounced above the level of the maize.
"Oh hell." said Hanna, "Molly!" She started at a jog into the field, the maize instantly soaking her jeans, sodden to the knee. Overhead the clouds were swirling, getting darker, denser. A sudden booming of thunder rocked over the fields, a few seconds and the flash. Right overhead. Now that Hanna was in the field she couldn't see Molly any more, nor could she hear her barking, the rustling of the maize filled the air.
"Molly!" The raindrops were heavy now, she could feel the weight of water on her hood. Her hair plastered itself in front of her eyes time and again, blurring her vision, and the crop moved angrily, as if it were trying to rip itself from the ground. The way it moved was unreal, alive. All of a sudden the path behind her had disappeared into the rain.
"Molly!" She gave another long blast on the whistle, and thought she saw something move ahead of her. Just for a second a shadow shifting against the seeds, but it was impossible to tell for sure.
"Molly!" She waited.
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