(Im Januar 2016 reiste ich sieben Tage durch die Northwestern Highlands, nach wüsten Überschwemmungen, und, zufällig, in den Tagen nach dem Tode David Bowies. Es war eine abenteuerliche Reise. Ein Höhepunkt war eine Art „breaking and entering“ in ein unverschlossenes Haus an einer steilen Klippe, mit Blick Richtung Orkney Inseln. Ich entdeckte einen uralten Plattenspieler, und selten hatte ich so grosse Freude an Louis Armstrong und Whisky (set & setting!) – beides fand ich dort vor. Am nächsten Tag hinterliess ich Geld für die nicht ganz legale Übernachtung, und einen freundlichen Brief an die Hauseigentümer. Sieben Tage mit vier grossartigen Alben im Land Rover-Cd-player, sowie unvergessliche Fiddelklänge und Begegnungen am Rande der Welt.)
In the late afternoon, yesterday, 2 days before the Celtic Connections will open up their curtains in the Tron Theatre and all over town. Saw Sam Lee and bis friends performing for a handful of people. BBC technicians, a folk academic running around, with a book of West Yorkshire song sheets, Sam Lee totally handsome. Field recordings, Sinti tunes entering Celtic vibes – and as if he could see future radio listeners, he was telling background stories like sitting at a campfire, interview excerpts running from old tape decks. His singing pure joy.
In the morning, leaving Glasgow for a while, the radio playing Bowie tunes, remembering the photo of a horse that nearly looked like an unicorn on the Isle of Barra. Will I be there tonight? I’m testing travel options: Thurso by train, Barra by Logan Air, or Edinburgh by bus. Acting by instinct. Kevin Barry’s BEATLEBONE A constant companion on airports, bus stations, and The Willow Tea House. John Lennon in 1978 on a journey to a desolate Irish island. The beaches will all look different today. I’ll breathe in the sounds of the sea and the cold-starred air.
Made the decision. 2 hours later. Going north. Destination known. The highways, the dead end streets, the cold dark cliffs on the edge of the North Western Highlands. Thurso, I’m coming. The remains of endless rain will give me a warm welcome. And it all means: no photos anymore, no diary on the blog, just slowly looking around without filters, blind habits, and my four-cd-collection being the soundtrack for this fucking road movie comedy. Maybe some creepy fiddle players will make their appearances (with woeful songs about lost sweathearts and lonesome moonlight in wooden cabins and local pubs). Always returning: „Darkstar“, „Lord of the Rings“ (from my teenage „evergreens“, Bo Hansson’s classic), „Astral Weeks“, and „Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy) – the desert island collection for days and nights to come (embrace the most lonsome areas, the music your lifeguard). Go swimming! No way! The music is the second horizon, and from time to time it’ll keep my world in a nutshell.
He takes his seat on the foreign train. He thinks it pleasant to travel again. Mindful of the journey’s end. Many hours later, he is strollng among trees hearing voices. Birdsong. Birdsong in January. The name of town pubs always have familiar names, like they never escaped old R.L. Stevenson novels. „Admiral Dirge Crown Pub“. Will drink a whisky, will start to unfold a map of small paths that all lead to some outlook post. Is that the word, „outlook post“? Some faraway place. That is the word. But is it really „the remains of endless rain“, not „the remnants of endless rain“? Can loneliness be a friend? Start asking better questions. How can moments go so slow? This is a Land Rover. And this is the cd-player of the Land Rover. And this is the sound of eight speakers: „Back in Judy’s Jungle“. The sea hardens with new light. John Buchan was here.