Monday 27 November 2017

Larry's Death Cafe

by Pat Sutherland

Larry's Death Cafe was a memorable event that attracted maximum participation. It combined the fun of a Water Story aboard Peccadillo with opportunities for deep thoughts and contemplation. What can be more profound and challenging than thoughts of death? 

Firstly we passed around the Talking Stick, a gift to Larry from some Native American friends. Possession of the stick confers the right to speak, ending with 'I have spoken', the response to which is a strong 'HO!' from the listeners. So we passed the stick, telling our stories and listening to others'. 

Then, as we chugged along, at Larry's prompting we asked ourselves a difficult question: when did we expect to die? As ever, there were some moving observations and the comforting fellow-feeling that tends to arise from sharing. Larry encouraged us to look inside of ourselves for those thoughts we mostly keep out of sight.

All this profound thinking was done to the clink of coffee cups and an excess of delicious cake. Some were brave enough to visit the prow for an envigorating blast of bitter wind; the cowards, myself chief among them, remained cosily inside. 

Larry's second prompt was 'On our journey towards death...' The variety of responses was proof if any were needed, of our diversity, our ability to look at life as through a kaleidoscope,each seeing a different pattern.

Later when I told friends about the Death Cafe, they wondered if this was the best means of staying cheerful. How wrong they were! There was as much laughter during our sail as on any other occasion, and I left feeling lighter. Death is the ultimate, purest certainty, one we often try to avoid. Staring him in the face is embolding, and there's always the chance that he'll be the first to look away.

Ironically, it was life enhancing to share our thoughts on the Grim Reaper: he sits easily with coffee and Victoria sponge. 

Thank you, Captain Bev and Larry. 

Monday 30 October 2017

Carers' Waterstory, Loch Lomond 21st October 2017

by Pat Sutherland

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
The poet was talking about Loch na Keal, but last Saturday the water-wraiths had wheeched down to Loch Lomond and they were giving it laldy.  Waterstory trips are almost always sunlit, but this time the weather gods were not best pleased.

It takes more than winds blowing a hooligan to dismay Captain Bev, however, and there she was in the prow, waving us all on board:  Ahoy there, sweeties!  The boat was high in the water, which caused embarkation shenanigans for the Elders, but many hands combined to haul us aboard.  Tourists, keen for a taste of authentic Scotland, had turned up in undaunted droves, filling every seat in the cabin, while a few armed with selfie sticks braved the weather on deck.  This was me when the wind inflated my poncho and I took off into Loch Lomond....

In the mooring, the boat rocked, causing a few exits even before we were underway.  But once out on the loch, we found quieter waters.  Bev, who probably invented multi-tasking, took the wheel and broadcast her commentary.  We learned about the loch's beginnings, its botanical and geological significance, and its bloody history. The surrounding hills had wrapped themselves in cloud; the bonny banks lay dripping and still, and beneath us surged six hundred feet of dark, mysterious water.  Scotland on the gloomiest day is still magnificent.

The Arklet Falls at Inversnaid were in full spate, powerful white torrents roaring into the loch.  It was the perfect day for reciting the poem that sent this  corner of Scotland across the world:

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

We could see that galloping cuddie in the crashing water, and wished we could match the poet's inspiration.

Once safely tied up at Tarbet, there was tea and Cathy's Gingerbread, a confection that would have Mary Berry spitting tacks.  Writing time followed, and much of it featured memories brought to life by our morning on the loch.  Childhoods by the sea  and river bank picnics grew on the page.  As the day darkened, 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;

Scotland's weather seems to be a preoccupation among its poets.  It was hoods up and heads down to the car park.


But as Glasgow folk always said after a wet Fair Fortnight: It didnae keep us in!

Wednesday 26 April 2017

I KNOW WHAT I KNOW

by May McIntyre

I - I know what I 


K - Know

N - Now because I learned very quickly that I must ask. I asked  - 
so that I kept my sanity. 

O - Otherwise I could never have survived this awful journey.

W - When I needed things clarified - I asked.


W - When I needed to understand.  When I

H - Had to know what to expect.  When I was out of my depth.  When I was 

A - Afraid - I asked. When I needed to fuel myself with knowledge,

T - To familiarise myself with the unknown - I asked. 


I - I always asked! Gathering 

K - Knowledge about a problem or issue is

N - Never easy. Never easy to face up to it. Never easy to face a different future. Different to the one you had planned in your mind. The 

O - One and only 

W - Way to survive this unwanted journey is to ask when you need reassurance and to be fuelled every step of the way with hope. 


Wednesday 12 April 2017

Peanut butter away

by John Young

What a beautiful  summers day sun splitting the sky, glowing and inspiring yet the east  wind screams through our bones,enough to make  you cry.

The barge is resting at peace  ,  diesel  fills our nostrils,  pens and pencils are primed and ready to write , ears on full alert listening  , waiting  yet  , yes its time for a fleece.

Clunk, clank boom we are ready for the off.
Captian  Bev gives us the shout 

"Peanut  butter away"   

Looking forward to  our adventure  on a glorious  day.

The question  is what do we know ?,we ponder we drink coffee  we go with the  flow.

Bish bash bong the old lady murmurs  along ,carrying  the writers dreams,   hopes and fears  a bit of laughter  and a wee tear.

Monday 10 April 2017

The Daffies on Great Western Road


by Pat Sutherland

All the way from Kelvinside to Yoker
they stood in ranks, heads up, ramrod straight. 
Off duty, they'd nod to the early bee 
and gossip about the trespassingTazetta
exiled from some matchless garden, 
sneering at her common woodland cousins. 
I'd tell her where to stick her trumpet, 
said the tallest one.

But the North Wind fancied a change,
after months of levelling island hamlets 
and blowing a hooligan over Wick;
so whistling something Wagnerian,
he swooped south,
picking up ponderous clouds
eager for a free ride.
And as he took one long deep breath
above Bearsden 
they yelled, Bombs away!
And loosed a million hailstones.

The Botanics emptied;
umbrellas and hats took flight;
the alt-left outside Oran Mhor
turned their Guardians into hats
and ran for the bar;
an ecstacy of toddlers splashed
and stamped in deepening puddles.

Legless and without a tail to turn,
the hapless daffs were rooted to the spot,
while gleeful gale and spiteful hail
skelped them down,
rubbed their frilly faces in the dirt,
and left them all - wiped out -
in a field of glaur.

Content with his carnage, but
eager for more, the vandal wind,
hearing word of loose slates
in Coatbridge,
blew off north-east.

He left a quieter sky.
A few querulous rays squeezed
through kettling clouds,
touching the battlefield
with a smidgen of warmth,
just enough to stir bedraggled heads
and turn them skywards.

All the way from Kelvinside to Yoker,
now back in their blazing ranks,
the daffies stand proud, heads up,
unbeaten.  Whaur's your phoenix noo?
says the tallest one.


Indomitable?  Naw: gallus.

Tuesday 28 March 2017

Highland Cinema

by Sheila Buchanan

As the blog lengthens some of these gems are consigned to "Older posts"; I'm going to start cycling the content back to the beginning for another read. The pieces are well worth it - like this transportive account of cinema experience of old by Sheila...


Back in the day Glasgow was known as cinema city and indeed cinema going was a mass phenomenon.  By 1939 there were 114 cinemas in the city.  The Enchineer being the font of all knowledge and experience remembered that within a mile of where he stayed there were at least 10 cinemas.  He corroborated the tale that you took jam jars to the ticket booth and in exchange got entrance to a world apart and the silver screen.  His father would give him 2 shillings and that was enough to get him and his sister a bag of sweets and entrance to the cinema with still enough left over to buy his siblings back home a share of  penny caramels which would be divided up so no one missed out.

Listening to the Enchineer’s stories led me  to think about some rare archive footage of the Highlands and Islands Mobile cinema I had seen recently.  The footage which had only recently been catalogued showed the cinema van which would do its rounds to all the rural villages and islands.  The size of the community was no barrier to a visit.  The whole village would go out and walk in their “good clothes” to the local hall enfamille. Young and old and older were there washed and dressed and ready for their evening. The footage shows the farmer often finishing his work in the field with the ancient agricultural machinery which required vast amounts of manual work unlie the sophisticated machinery of today.  He would then join the family and villagers at the hall to see the latest offering at the “cinema”

The man in the van would arrive early at the venue and carry in all the crates of films in their large tin cans and the hefty large projector.  He rarely had a helper so he was
The man wi’ the van
Bringing in the tin can
The power to run the projector was often taken from a link up to the alternator and battery of the van.  To get the height required to show the films the projector height was fashioned from a number of boxes arranged with the wooden step ladder on top.  This makeshift edifice would have the projector sitting on the wooden platform of the step ladder and be of sufficient height to show the film on a wall or screen so that all could view.

The size of the communites varied from 100 in Kilchrenan to the mighty tally of 300 or more in the bigger villages.  The program consisted of small shorts, kids programs and the main feature.  Sometimes the older children would be allowed to see the main film which was a treat for them.  The adults would get wooden gym benches to sit on and the children the floor.  On Skye there was a bus that collected the audience to take them to Portree to the bigger cinema.  As there were no pubs in the rural areas it was a wheeze to get the bus to Portree where there were pubs and so the bus back was rowdy and fun…..memories made no mention of the film.  It was also a match making dating agency.
Film makers of all shades made films.  They would capture life with no CGI effects available to them but these will last longer in the archive memories and provide deep insight and vision for ourselves getting a glimpse into the past and celluloid tales.

I myself experienced this mobile cinema in Arran in the late 50’s in Brodick community hall.  The hall would be filled with folding chairs that appeared to feel soft at the start but ended up being fidgety and hard but this still did not spoil the excitement. I saw King Kong which was an early film version compared with the recent release and had none of the sophisticated effects of today but was none the less full of terror and suspense despite the crackly effects.  I can still remember the sounds of the film reel flapping as it came to the end of the first reel and needing changed to allow the film to continue.  The lights would come on and an enforced interval would take place while the next reel was fitted.  The sounds of the running machine and the light casting a beam of dancing dust particles in the darkness are strong memories for the senses.  There was no separate projection room then.

The images of these times have filtered into my brain and cast interest and inspired my own memories.  We live in an era of rapid change so rapid that we do not notice the changes.  It is a privilege to be allowed to look back at these films which have now been digitised and preserved for us.  For further enlightened reflection of these times there is open access to the National library of Scotland which has opened a brand new venue in the Kelvin hall. It has a vast and catalogued collection of images which are freely available to anyone to view in comfortable and stimulating surroundings….

Further resources about the cinemas in Glasgow can be found at
This shows  pictures of where the cinemas were. You will be surprised at the size of the cinema buildings and reflect on what is there now.  As an example a cinema which existed close to my current home is now a car park and an Aldi store.!!

Oh My Pain



by Sheila Buchanan

In medicine pain implies something that happens when some parts of the body are damaged.  It can be emotional or physical or both.  It is an individual experience and not well understood.

Pain cannot be measured.
It is a four letter word
My pain is full on All day long
And night time too
Same pain
Different for me and for you.

Heat or cold applied to the site
Supposed to relieve
This terrible shite

Tell your doctor the internet says
The doctor implies he hasn’t a clue
Take a pill That will do.

Time will heal
You’ve heard the spiel
We’ll take more pictures
As we obviously can
No holds barred
Its chronic now.

Good luck friend
Be on your way
Bad news is
Pain is here to stay.

But don’t worry I’m FINE.



One of the Enchineer's Stories

retold by Steve Harwood

With thanks to the Enchineer for his fascinating stories and recollections of the Forth & Clyde Canal

The following is based on a true account………

“ HELP! HELP! Mister - Ma’ pal has fallen aff a log, he’s under it, we cannae get him oot….He’s droonin’ Mister. HELP!!!

The Man tore off his jacket, kicked off his boots,and without hesitation plunged into the cold, murky water, divingunder the logs, dozens of them, side by side kept in rows by the sheer volume of weight and numbers. His head was continually bumped and bruised by them, how long he could hold out for air hadn’t entered his mind.

He groped around, blindly reaching out with outstretched arms, hands desperately trying to grip an object which might resemble the form of a child amongst the slippery, ever moving logs….no thought for his own safety or even for an escape route. his mind was focused on one thing only, to try and rescue the boy, a boy he’d never met, who meant nothing to him except that it was a fellow human being who deserved a life like everyone else…….

Then suddenly, against all the odds his hands grasped what felt like a sodden mass of rags, a dead weight, and by sheer instinct he propelled the mass to the surface, forcing the logs to part enough to thrust the bundle of rags into the outstretched hands of the crowd who had suddenly gathered to witness this dramatic scene.
Adrenalin alone kept the man going to find the strength to drag himself onto the embankment and administer mouth to mouth resuscitation to the lifeless body. Then by some miracle the boy spluttered, gasped for air and gagged out the putrid water from his stomach, thankfully his lungs were clear enough to start breathing again – his young life was saved!

A cheer went up from the crowd as they pressed in onthe bedraggled man. Cries were heard
-  “Well done Son!! Look at ye yer soaked through and through , Tam gie the man a dram from yerhaufbottle afore he freezes to death !!!”

Then another voice was heard, a voice of Authority as the burly policeman stepped through the crowd... “Now then stand aside, I’m taking charge here……..”. He produced a black notebook, licked his pencil and addressed the man, standing before him, who by now was trembling with the cold and excitement of the event.
 “Now then Sir, I’ll need your name, address and an account of what happened here….I’m going to have to report this incident to the Authorities, your family and your employer and once the local Newspapers hear about this, by this time tomorrow you’ll be a Hero “ Local man saves boy from drowning!!”
At the mention of the word “Employer” a chill ran down the man’s spine, and fear and panic gripped his heart – all other discomfort was forgotten as the horror of the current situation began to dawn on him …….“Whit? Naw!Naw! ah don’t want ony o’ that publicity nonsense” ………..It had just dawned on him that earlier that afternoon he had decided that being a Friday, he was entitled to finish early but had neglected to let his Boss know about this unwritten ‘benefit’ .
The reason he was there in the first place was that he was heading for his favourite hostelry across the canal, for a wee ‘hauf and a hauf’’before surrendering his pay packet to “She who must be obeyed”.
He continued his protest “If news of this reaches ma Gaffer that I ‘Loused’ early, he’ll dock me 2 hours pay!!”
Such was the character of the average Glasgow Grafter in those days, in a bygone era long before Health and Safety ‘reared’  it’s head, when boys became men well before reaching teenage years, if indeed they survived  the daring, dirt and danger of the age,  an age when men and boys lived by their wits and humour.

How many other stories along the Forth and Clyde remain unrecorded and hidden in the mists of time we will never know, but like the story telling traditions of the indigenous peoples of North America and the Antipodes, around camp fires passed from Father to Son, or in the workplace or in the ‘watering holes’ of life…..that era is sadly long gone…..but thanks to the Peccadillo and the concept therein there are still rare characters out there such as the Enchineer who keep these old traditions alive. Long may they flourish and continue!





Tuesday 21 March 2017

The Great Canal 2016


by Pat Sutherland Oct16

Three centuries of winding water,
sullied from the start,
coal-black, rust-red, sliding from
Bowling to Grangemouth,
Clyde to Forth;
floating coal, moving iron,
flanked by foundries
mills and breweries,
slaking Glasgow's thirst
at Port Dundas,
swelling industry and Scotland's trade.

A passage to adventure
for tall ships,
to servitude
for ragged humanity
transported  from The Butney,
a hellish highway
to the world's end.

Time flowed;
industry and profits grew                                                               
and would not wait
for barges, bound
to a horse's pace;
steam and power
outran the narrow boats,
sequestered by the train.

A century forsaken,
the Great Canal,
beneath black tenements
lay stagnant, silted,
a cesspool of beer cans,
its margins overspread
with swarming weeds,
till with the third millenium
came restoration.

Bulldozers scooped up sludge and trash,
scalpeled out a tiny heartbeat;
a trickle sprang and danced
into a rill,
a living, flowing course,
a waterway.

Today on Peccadillo
we motor slowly
past autumn corridors;
vivid leaves paint the surface,
fiery splashes on reflected clouds.
Willows droop and birches shiver,
A patient heron watches from the reeds,
coot and moorhen paddle by our bows.

Here in the ancient city,
a cycle of centuries
rolled full circle,
Nature is honoured again.

Granny Boy

All dignity aside, the grey the groans, the grinding bones,
irascible insomnia and eyesight in decline...
but now’s the time, my brows decide... commit ecstatic suicide.
Of late they curl to startled dance before departing furrowed brow
and then – great! – reincarnate with dark panache on my top lip,
my granny tache.

I stab my eyes with mascara sticks
in vain attempt at repair, too late I fear to learn these tricks.
At school I played more boisterous marble games with Raynedine,
incontinent screams of laughter in hostel corridors
while other girls did hair and makeup,
boys and curls.

Bah, I give up.
I land with my grandson in a heap of sledges, snow and hysteria.
He stands, hands on hips, gazes lovingly up at
my balding brow and billowing lip, says Gogo, you look like a boy.
Why thank you I shout, slap a pantomime thigh
and we charge up the hill for another.






Bev Schofield 17

Wednesday 25 January 2017

Welcome to Peccadillo's Water Story blog

Happy Burns day 2017, what better day to launch our Water Story blog.

To start us off as we mean to carry on, this contribution is from Pat Sutherland.


Rab, I wish you knew.

You were a man o' pairts, Rab,
a poet wi' pen, a sophist wi' plough,
stoppin' amang the stour
tae beg a moosie's pardon,
say sorry tae a daisy;
mockin' the unco' guid
then lickin' their boots
for patronage.

A  lusty man, Rab,
wi' charm an' sweetest words
ye won the lassies,
faitherin' bairns across the county,
keepin' warm the cutty stool
fur sake o' cutty sarks,
ge'in'  gleefu' gossip
tae warpit auld wives.

You loved them a', Rab,
the Jeans an Lizzies,
jist no wan at a time,
an' them that deid or left,
you loved forever.

Above a', Rab, a workin' man,
you filled each year
wi' toil;
tied tae a plough,
you laboured
in the futile fields
an wrote an wrote
by candle licht
seein' your best laid schemes
wasted, like sodden acres.


You deid too soon, Rab,
before the word went roon,
before  Rab the Rhymer
gie'd way tae 'Scotland's Bard'
before, across the globe
shackled nations sang
that man to man, the world o'er,
shall brithers be for a' that.

Today we toast you
and a' your works:
the sangs, the poems,
the lassies, the bairns -
the words that winna dee:
Here's freedom to them that would read.
Here's freedom to them that would write!
There's nane ever feare'd that the truth should be heard
But they wham the truth wid indite!
Oh Rab, I wish you knew.



by Pat Sutherland