Una vera donna




Una vera donna
 Piena di gentilezza,
 Begli occhi pieni d'amore
 Una figura di bellezza
  
La testa alta
 La pena nascosta,
 Sorride come il sole
           Velando una lacrima          

Una vera donna
 Col cuore tenero,
 Ogni tocco delle mani
 È dolce e morbido

È tanto generosa
   Lo sguardo - una promessa,
 Veglia sempre sugli altri
       Prima che su se stessa    
                                                             
            Una vera donna            
  Davvero molto amata,
    E sempre giovane  
  Poiché qui immortalata

 
 Pour C
 
 * 
 
       Poem and image © Mirino. With many thanks to Rob. November, 2013
 

Nocturnal musing



Sometimes one imagines the world like an enormous, old fashioned time-bomb. The sort of naive image created with the available rudimentary means when silent, b/w films were made. But at that time things seemed far less complicated. The enormous discoveries and progress in all fields of science and technology, including the successful realisation of man's oldest dream and greatest aspiration: to be able to fly, inspired the world and gave it hope and confidence. The world was moving forward, with enormous strides, and all the various cultures of its populations were then naturally effected by this progress in a positive way.

But as history reveals, human nature never changes. It only adapts. Often we are totally out of clink with the sophisticated science and technology we are capable of creating and developing. This was tragically evident during the Great War. But even the lesson of the Great War was glossed over. The victors wanted the losers to pay an impossible debt, and the first territorial divisions and confiscations were decreed (Le Traité de Versailles, followed by the French mandate of Syria and Liban). Consequently the 'war to end all wars' ironically prepared the most perfect conditions to enable and encourage the birth of a far more evil monster only twenty years later.

Since then, since the second victory over tyranny, the powerful forces of justice took it on themselves once more to divide up the world according to what was then considered appropriate (the Conferences of Tehran, Potsdam and finally Yalta). Again, the division was determined by the horrendous consequences of WW2 and on whose side one was during the conflict.

Thus like the Olypian Gods, the victorious powers cast the seeds of destiny just as casually. Since then the world is once more having to contend with the consequences.

The last throes of Soviet communism finally renouncing to try to maintain its foothold in Afghanistan, together with the blind American reaction to the afgan fatigue and disunity exploited by Pakistan, helped to give birth to yet another monster. The most evil of all because it exploits the God it pretends to worship, to impose its will and gain power. The most abominable crimes have thus been committed and continue to be committed in God's name. And they are all the more atrocious when they are fuelled by hate and vengeance stemming from the consequences of war, division and social injustice. This monster who rears up its ugly head to exhale it's fetid poison and fire on all who dare try to oppose it, doesn't limit itself to any nation. There is no particular national pride, no particular frontier to defend. Ironically and incoherently this monster aspires to rule the whole world and impose its medieval values in the process.

The irony and incoherence is that in order to do so, it has to rely on modern technology developed by the civilisation that it is rabidly bent on destroying. It has to use advanced systems of communication and electronics in order to destroy innocent lives.

As the monster doesn't identify itself with any particular nation, it attracts acolytes from all nations of the world who, like the monster itself, are frustrated, confused, disillusioned, unstable and therefore ideal, brain-washable subjects. It seems that there is no shortage of such recruits, and this has been the case now for more than twenty years.

Such is the basic situation. The consequences of relatively recent history, although it be an over simplified summary.

There have been other monsters, of course. According to individual interests they have been tolerated, at least until the tragic and determining date of the 11th September, 2001, and up until more recently in Libya.
In the case of Bashar al Assad, who has shown no mercy in disdainfully crushing his people and their aspirations for two years now, even to the extent of finally using chemical weapons against them, we are now witnessing the incredible scene of his being warmly congratulated, even by American authorities and members of the UN Security Council, for his co-operation in allowing experts the right to confiscate and destroy his illegal stock of chemical weapons!
As Syria wants the weapons to be destroyed elsewhere, there is an understandable problem regarding transporting them via neighbouring countries such as Albania. There is also the problem of making them inaccessible to extremist groups.

However, to return to Europe.
The Italians sometimes believe that the French are right to actively reject government proposals. They might appreciate that recent manifestations against the 'ecotaxe' is an expression of exasperation. The French government has gone too far in trying to solve the deficit problem by over taxation on a short term basis. Hopefully we might even be witnessing the beginning of the end of French socialism. Indeed it seems that F. Hollande, his government and his brand of socialism are condemned, simply because the enormous mountain in front of them is insurmountable, and the French President is completely coincé by his red and green-red allies.

The fact that France is perhaps the only European country that still fully tolerates communism, most likely stems from its history. Naturally the French Revolution, La Commune, the arrival, somewhat belatedly, of the communists in joining the heroic body of resistant fighters during the German occupation of WW2, and thus Général de Gaulle's obligation to include a representation of the communists in his post war government, would legitimise the French brand of communism. But obviously the communist party, the socialist party and all the other French political parties, lamentably add to the division of French society.

There was a time in Europe when communism seemed to have a just and ideal reason of being. Perhaps the Italian communists who fought heroically against Franco in Spain, would have agreed. But Italian history is quite different from French history, even though some history has been shared, thanks to Napoleon, for example. Italy however, learnt humility as did Germany from the consequences of WW2. They learnt from the effects of communism just as well as they learnt from the effects of fascism. The French, thanks to the allies, the resistance and the imposing posture of Charles de Gaulle, came through it all somewhat less morally scathed. In spite of the embarrassing and painful obligation to collaborate, the ego finally suffered less and the banner of the Republic still flies nobly, even if one stoically continues to ignore its ignoble bloodstains and dismiss the ignoble facts that led to the birth of mythic Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.

The stones of history have thus paved the way to the present situation. The French are still influenced or conditioned by the generous but paradoxical and incoherent ideals of the French Revolution. Even today some still continue to believe in what nature herself dismisses : equality, but only when it suits them.

To try to please the people, les sans culottes, the French President declared that 'he hates the rich'. Although it has since been revealed that amongst his ministerial entourage there are several multimillionaires, he has never retracted this transparent, populist statement.

The socialist scene one therefore tries to project in France is the classic one that dates from the times when Marie-Antoinette is alleged to have thrown some bread (or brioche) out of a window of the Tuileries as a modest gesture to contribute towards lessening the suffering of the supposedly starving Parisians.
But as the French monarchy has been decapitated, the elected Presidents of France, are virtual, monarchial substitutes.

In the case of François Hollande, who even according to his ex-concubine and mother of his children, 'has never done anything in the last thirty years', such an unexpected event of his actually being elected President of France, seems to have had an over-inflated effect on him. So much so that 'Moi Président', has made certain engagements based on election promises that were ill-advised.

But apart from the endless internal affairs and inconsistencies, what seems to me to be more determining as well as dangerous, is the arrogance with which he has conducted certain external affairs.
There is, for example, considerable incoherence in quitting Afghanistan where the French were fighting international Islamic extremists alongside of NATO forces, to fight international Islamic extremists in Mali without the support of NATO forces.

He was right, even if he had no choice, to eventually heed the Malian call for help, but he was wrong to make irresponsible and naive declarations about the intervention. From them one might suppose that Monsieur Hollande had the intention of purging the whole world of international terrorism. He was naive to believe that a strong, brief incursion in Mali would solve the problem. As suggested before, it could be that he has inadvertently contributed towards establishing another epicentre of terrorism in Northern Africa. Another Pandora's Box. And with regards to the latest tragic consequence, the assassination of two French reporters in Mali, he was wrong to first express his 'indignation', rather than his sincere condolences towards the families and all concerned. This, not only because giving priority to his indignation was incorrect, but also because the 'Moi Président' is showing himself to be personally 'vexed' by a callous and cowardly terrorist act.

Obviously this is exactly the result that the terrorists set out to achieve, to punish the French President for his commitment in Mali. Now that al-Qaida has received the confirmation from F. Hollande himself that the movement is succeeding in making such a personal impact on him, he has virtually sent the terrorists a formal, public invitation to continue.

If this is a reasonable conclusion, the French President would not be improving the security situation for the relatively few French troops in Kidal, Mali. In fact he wouldn't be improving the security situation for any French subject in that part of the world, or anywhere else for that matter.


All this might well be considered long-winded. Parts of it might seem too simplistic or trite. Should this be so, put it all down to nocturnal musing, because that's exactly what it is.  
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Text and lower composite (thanks to various sources including NASA) © Mirino. Top nocturnal satellite image of Europe and Africa by NASA, with thanks. November, 2013

Thomas Campion



Thomas Campion (1567-1620) began his professional life by studying law at Grey's Inn, but eventually practiced as a physician having received his medical degree from the University of Caen, Normandy, France.
He was a composer, poet and a writer of masques. Masques probably originated in Italy. They consisted of light, allegorical entertainment of music and dancing performed for the court by professional actors and musicians. Often courtiers and sometimes even monarchs themselves participated.

Campion wrote his first poems in Latin. As he so appreciated the quantitative versification of classical Latin, he introduced this into his English poems and songs.
He defended quantitative verse as against accentuated rhymed English verse in his Observations In the Art of English Poesy.

As he was both poet and composer, his best works are considered to be his lyric poems. It's probable that he was a fine musician for all his songs are finely fluid. He wrote over a hundred songs for lute accompaniment.
Song books and masques, however, didn't remain long in vogue, which is also why his works were virtually dismissed as obsolete after his death. Puritanism and Commonwealth concerns would also have accelerated the process.
  
We know that the Elizabethan Golden Age was a fabulously creative era, a cultural explosion reflecting also a general joie de vivre. Thomas Campion's occasional ribald allusions indicate that he was probably a bon vivant, and they are invariably blest with an intelligent appreciation for all the joys of life, fully determined, naturally, by women.

One of Campions poems has already been parodied in Viewfinder. Indeed some of his works seem to beg for this. But of course Thomas Campion deserves greater respect for his particular contribution to English literature, especially as a lyric poet.

The following, again with apologies to Thomas Campion, is a parody based on his poem-song : I Care Not for These Ladies c.1601. The music score is here.


I care not for these ladies that need such gentleness:
Give me any wanton maid who's easy to possess.
A tousled red haired damsel would indeed suffice.
If nature art disdaineth, then beauty is skin deep,
And when profoundly occupied there's little time for sleep.

If I love such maidens who give me cheese on toast
But had I to buy from courtesans, then never should I boast.
For most aesthetics, soft voluptuous forms are nice.
Give me any wanton lass who never will refuse,
But there are divers comforts that can forsooth amuse.

The ladies must have silken sheets, soft slippers for their feet.
Give me a cloggèd peasant fair, a field of golden wheat,
And a merry, babbling brook, all devoid of price.
When thus we are in each others arms, she cries, "I must away!"
But if I offer her ten quid she's more likely to stay.
 



Text and parody © Mirino. Sources include The Norton Anthology English Literature, V. 1. Paintings by Orazio Gentileschi 1562-1639. (Top- The Lute Player c. 1610).                                                                                                  November, 2013

The Guardian

His dragged footsteps echoed in the small Gothic church of St. Abel. The lame man had been there for quite some time. One might have thought that he was employed there, or even that he lived there.

Whenever the church was empty, the clergy absent for any length of time, the man would watch over everything. Without any parochial authority, he therefore took it on himself to act as guardian of the church.

On one side of the nave was displayed a scene depicting a religious event. It was of wax figures in fourteenth century costume, all seated at a table. The colour of the figures and their costumes had faded giving the scene a ghostly appearance. By this setting a thick, off-white, cotton curtain draped heavily. It seemed to be additionally weighed down with centuries of dust and cobweb. It was attached to a metal rail secured to the triforium below a clerestory stained-glass window. A rich tasseled cord held it loosely to a wrought-iron hook on one side of an arcade leading to a small chapel.

One night the guardian sat in the shadows of the chancel, his eyes glancing affectionately at the obscure objects and paintings which seemed to become alive in the flicker of candle-light. He was also listening intently. He feared that evil spirits encouraged by the waining powers of the church were intruding to try impose their malevolence.

He limped from the chancel to the nave where there was less light. There, sure enough, he was able to discern the presence of several wraiths-fiends.
Fearing that he would be overpowered by them, he hastily made his way to a wall where he knew he could climb via plaster mouldings round a tracery window up to the triforium. As he was doing so one of the foul creatures clasped him by the ankle of his lame leg. By kicking at it as hard as he could with his other leg, he succeeded in freeing himself. At least temporarily he was thus able to climb out of reach of the heinous creatures.

But even from where he had managed to climb to, above and all about him, he knew there was still a satanic threat. According to his mission he was duty bound to protect the church. The presence of evil was very harmful indeed. It must not be tolerated.

In spite of the danger, he climbed down to face these devil's disciples. Yet he was soon overcome by them. He saved himself by leaping onto the table of the wax figures, then hauling himself up again to the triforium by way of the ancient curtain. The worn fabric shred to a powder in places as he climbed.
The night passed uncomfortably, but the danger seemed to fade as if erased by the dawn light.

When the parish priest returned to the church that morning, he was aghast by the damage and disorder that the man had been too exhausted to try to amend.
The priest discovered the trespasser fast asleep lying on a pew, his head supported by a worn, red velvet hassock. He angrily shook the man's shoulder to wake him up, curtly informing him that he had no right to be there. But instead of evicting him, he insisted on marching him to the confession box in order that he furnish some sort of explanation. The priest however, was already quite sure that there could never be any reasonable justification for such sacrilege.

The man being perfectly honest, naturally told the priest the whole truth. Consequently the priest was convinced that the weird intruder was mad, and possibly possessed by the devil.

It was therefore with grave authority that the priest implored the man to renounce Satan. Of course, he would need to be exorcised by a qualified exorcist, the priest calmly affirmed. And providing all goes well, that he is fully liberated from the devil's power and possession, and that his total cure is clearly established, only then will he be able to seek permission to re-enter a house of God.

The man patiently pointed out that his being there, and at this particular time, was absolutely necessary to defend the church against the intrusion of powerful forces of evil. Only God knows the truth of this. The man was as fully aware of this, as the priest was fully persuaded of his own ecclesiastical importance.

The priest frowned with impatience and disgust. There are no limits to sinful pretentiousness and vanity when one is weak-minded and possessed by evil, he reasoned.
As if he could read the thoughts of the priest, the man got up and limped towards the tower steps. The priest called after him then thought it best to let him go. He feared that the odd individual was unpredictable, and capable of doing something even more diabolical.

As there was naturally no question of allowing a maniac to remain in the church, the police were called to arrest him, but finally, despite their thorough searching, no trace of the curious fellow could be found anywhere. It was as though he had disappeared.

That same night the lame man perceived the presence of evil once more. He now knew why the church had become vulnerable to these evil assaults.
From a transcendent zone, he slowly descended the stone steps of the bell tower to face the unwelcome assailants.

There is no doubt that he defended the enemies of the church far beyond the limits of any human capacity. No one could ever possibly be considered more heroic, but then he felt that there was really no other choice. Not only did he succeed in completely purging the church of all evil, he discouraged all further satanic attempts to undermine and vilify St. Abel's.
The effect however, was that the church interior looked as though the devil himself had been on the wildest of nocturnal rampages.

The noise had resounded so much during the night that the police were called to intervene, but by the time they arrived the damage was done.
A warrant of arrest was issued to capture the man judged as dangerously insane. The parish clergy solemnly pronounced him as being processed by the devil.

It was all for nothing however, for unaccountably the lame man was never seen again.

The pub locals liked making fun of old Guthrie, his beer drinking bouts and his hallucinations; flying pigs and such like. Guthrie was the local pig farmer. He was never taken very seriously. But Guthrie never regretted his unique privilege, nor did he ever regret trying to describe it. For him there was no question of it ever being a hallucination.

Just as the sun rose through the dawn mists the day after the ultimate confrontation in the church of St Abel, old Guthrie saw a strange figure flying from the bell tower of the church. Silently it flew ascending majestically into the soft, morning haze then the pale mauve ribbons of sunlit clouds. Smaller and smaller it became until it finally disappeared altogether in the turquoise heavens.

*

This story is based on a dream. It was one of a sequence of strange dreams that I had at a certain period of time already alluded to here.
In the dream however, the 'Guardian' simply ends up interned in an asylum. The dream therefore might be considered nearer to reality than the above conscious, more romantic readaptation of it.
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Text and image © Mirino (PW). November, 2013

Le pouvoir



L'abus de pouvoir l'annule. Car lorsqu'on va à l'encontre des intérêts d'un individu, d'une entreprise ou d'une nation, on va forcément à l'encontre de son propre pouvoir.

On a vu les résultats dramatiques de l'abus de pouvoir en Lybie. On assiste toujours à ce phénomène à l'égard de la Syrie. La division du pouvoir au Liban est aussi préoccupante où le Hezbollah a sciemment gagné la confiance des naïfs pour accaparer petit à petit le pouvoir libanais, non pas pour le bien du Liban- jadis la perle multiculturelle exemplaire du Moyen Orient- mais pour le bien de l'Iran et de la Syrie. Cette dernière n'a jamais renoncé à ses aspirations et ses revendications à l'égard du Liban, bien qu'elle soit débordée par les éléments qui risquent éventuellement de l'engouffrer, car Bachar el-Assad, lui aussi, a abusé outre mesure de son pouvoir.

En ce qui concerne certains syndicats français aujourd'hui, ce n'est point évident que leur mentalité ait évoluée (depuis la révolution industrielle) pour le bien de qui que ce soit à part d'eux mêmes. Comme toujours ils veillent sur leur pouvoir syndical, qui veut aussi dire leurs intérêts idéologiques.

La compétitivité française, déjà bien minée par les charges, l'augmentation des taxes et les prélèvements obligatoires, est aussi la victime des syndicats. Évidemment par extension on mine les intérêts des employés. Généralement on réduit leur incitation à travailler davantage, autant à cause du matraquage fiscal et le fait que leurs salaires sont évidemment déterminés par la réussite des entreprises qui les emploient, qu'à cause des considérations syndicales purement idéologiques. Refuser le droit à ceux qui veulent travailler le dimanche est un exemple qui défie toute logique et bon sens économique.

Il y a bien des années, quand j'ai enseigné une fois ailleurs, j'ai été obligé d'assister à un meeting syndical. Déjà j'ai pensé à quel point cette obligation a été incongrue privant mes élèves de leur cours. Mais ce que j'ai entendu à cette réunion m'a ôté le peu de confiance qui me restait à l'égard des syndicats et leur raison d'être.
C'était manifeste alors qu'ils ne se souciaient point de qualité. Comme les socialistes français d'aujourd'hui, leur critère était la quantité. Par exemple ils se vantaient d'avoir obligé un établissement de réembaucher un alcoolique que les autorités concernées avaient pour bonne raison congédié. Pour les syndicats de cette époque c'était donc un exemple d'une grande réussite. Une façon curieuse d'assurer les enseignants qu'ils n'avaient rien à craindre, qu'ils pouvaient se comporter comme bon leur semble. Leur avenir est totalement assuré grâce au pouvoir divin du syndicat qui veille sur leur intérêts, mais non pas nécessairement sur ceux des élèves.

Même s'il n'y aurait aucun âge d'or qui pourrait jamais justifié un tel critère, la situation aujourd'hui, la concurrence européenne et mondiale rend cette mentalité encore plus obsolète, irresponsable sinon quasi criminelle. Les syndicats sacrifient leur propre pouvoir quand ils sacrifient leur sens de responsabilité, qui doit forcément inclure les intérêts du pays sur lequel ils dépendent. Ils annulent leur raison d'être quand ils donnent priorité à une idéologie politique qui va de pair avec leur pouvoir.

Veiller sur les intérêts des employés doit être totalement apolitique. Avec le pouvoir vient forcément la responsabilité. Abuser de son pouvoir est abuser de soi-même. Contribuer à créer un climat économique négatif incitant des entreprises à renoncer à investir pour être plus compétitive, ou à les pousser à la faillite ou à partir pour s'installer ailleurs pour leur propre survie, n'arrange rien pour personne.
A quoi donc servirait le pouvoir syndical si toutes les entreprises partaient ailleurs? Cela deviendrait un pouvoir atrophié. Les syndicats n'auraient plus rien à faire. Ils auraient supprimé leur vocation et leur raison d'être.

Naturellement la même chose s'applique à celui censé gérer un pays. Le Président français, par exemple, le 'Rain Man' qui excelle dans la médiocrité. Même s'il avait une volonté de fer pour sortir le pays du bourbier où il se trouve actuellement, F. Hollande est trop profondément coincé, non uniquement à cause de ses propres limitations flagrantes et son idéologie socialiste absurdement périmée, mais à cause de ses alliés communistes et verts-rouges, et à cause des exigences des syndicats. 

L'abus de pouvoir du Président lui-même est aussi péniblement évident. C'est la pratique d'une politique myope déterminée par les chiffres, la peur et le manque de confiance. Manifestement F. Hollande pense que c'est primordial de racler l'argent des contribuables et des entreprises par tous les moyens possibles, au lieu de leur donner l'opportunité de respirer, dépenser, investir, élargir, développer, embaucher de nouveau et réussir pour le bien de tous.

C'est un abus de pouvoir pour lequel F. Hollande payera cher les conséquences. Car partager parcimonieusement le maigre poulet mal cuit ne sert à rien. En tuant et en déplumant cette pauvre volaille française au lieu de la mieux nourrir et de lui donner plus de liberté pour qu'elle puisse pondre davantage d'œufs de qualité y compris quelques-uns en or, et faire davantage de poussins autant prometteurs, le chef d'Etat démontre qu'il n'a pas confiance en la nation qu'il est censé représenter. Dans ce cas jamais il ne sera réélu, et ce sera tant mieux pour la France et pour l'Europe.
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Text and image (montage) © Mirino. October, 2013

Scottish myths 31


The cave of King Arthur

Many claims have been made regarding exactly where King Arthur and his knights are alleged to be resting in peace.
Legend has it, for example, that they are sleeping beneath Eildon Hills.

A horse trader known as Canonbie Dick met an old man on Bowden Moor. The old man bought two horses then asked the trader to bring along four more to Bowden Moor at the same hour, on the same day of the following week. Dick was pleased to do so, and during their second meeting, the old man offered the horse trader a drink, also by way of sealing their agreement in a convivial way.

The old man led Dick into a great cave in the Eildon Hills. Dick was amazed to see there the stables of black destriers, and by each fine horse lay fast asleep a knight in black armour, which could hardly have been very comfortable.
In the cave there was also a table, not the famous round one, just a simple table upon which were placed a horn and a claymore in its long scabbard.

The old man offered Canonbie Dick a wooden mug of mead, then he introduced himself as Thomas, the prophet of Erceldoune, otherwise known as Thomas the Rhymer, or True Thomas. Dick accepted the mead, nodded and mumbled that it wasn't everyday that one bumps into prophets.

Thomas looked thoughtfully at Dick as the horse trader sipped his mead, then he set him a curious task. He should choose, said Thomas, between blowing on the horn or drawing the sword from its scabbard. If Dick made the right choice, continued the prophet, he would become King of Scotland.

Now Canonbie Dick wasn't too sure that he wanted such a weighty responsibility. He already found it hard enough getting by in the horse trade. Suspecting that the drawing of the sword would indicate courage, steadfast or foolhardy resolve, he decided to opt for blowing on the horn.

After he gave it a fine blast, there was a sinister rumble, which at first made Dick fear that he had got it wrong again. The ominous rumble preceded the sound of a withering voice that made this cruel and fatal proclamation:

Woe to the coward whoever was born
To draw not the sword but to blow on the horn.


To make things even worse, following this unfair curse expressed by a paltry poem, there were further cavernous rumblings. They built up to a culminating ear-splitting thunder, then an exceedingly powerful and smelly gust of wind rudely ejected Dick from the mouth of the cave as if he were shot from a cannon, or evicted by the blast of a mighty fart discharged by the displeased King Arthur himself.

He landed so badly that it caused him to suffer from mortal injuries. But Dick lived long enough to be able to recount this tale to the person who discovered him and did what little he could to try to ease his pain. The person was a deaf shepherd who, fortunately for posterity, could lip-read Gaelic.
Thanks to the shepherd this legend has been handed down, although one could surmise that Dick's interpretation was inexact, or that the shepherd wasn't the best of lip-readers, or that he invented the whole yarn himself.

Nevertheless, if there is a glimmer of truth in the tale, one could reach the conclusion that the choice offered by True Thomas, the prophet of Erceldoune, was unfair, thus a dishonest one. For had Dick been previously warned of the consequences of the choice of modesty, the choice of an unpretentious man aware of his own limitations but fully qualified at horn blowing, he would certainly have chosen to draw the claymore. And had he done so, the history of Scotland might well have been very different, if modesty often determines justice, whereas immodesty often engenders tyranny.
But it could also be said that this would not be the only recorded historical or mythical event that might advise us to beware of certain prophets.
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Scottish myths 32
Scottish myths 30

Retelling © Mirino. Sources include Scotland Myths and Legends (Beryl Beare). Photograph of Eildon Hills © Keith Robeson with grateful thanks.  
October, 2013