Duncan Harley

Words and images by Duncan Harley with additional reporting by April McGinty Some 43 years after his death, the studio once inhabited by Aberdeenshire artist James Cairns is at risk of collapse. The largely forgotten painter spent his later life transforming the old coastguard cottage at Buckie into a place of colour, scent and spiritual rebirth. He named the place Parody in the Sands and a local charity – The Cairns Poppies Initiative, has been tasked with preserving his heritage. Born in 1921, James’s artistic career was blighted by his association with both the scions of London gang life and an unfortunate alignment with an emerging National Socialist Party.   Having travelled to Austria in 1938 as part of a Friendship Through Strength international youth initiative funded by the Boy Scout Association of Silesia, he attended several Nazi youth rallies and was present at an early Nuremburg Rally where both Hitler and Goering addressed an admiring crowd. He was later to cl

Molly the parrot finally and irretrievably signed her death warrant today with her rendering of yet another unwarranted and unwanted joke and I must warn you that this is quite the most terrible parrot joke I have ever had the displeasure to stumble across on this deserted and god forsaken island. Even my new companion Man March seemed pleased at my action despite the fact that - at least as far as I am aware, he understands little or nothing about either the English language or syntax: ‘Squawk. After more than 40 years of marriage, a woman’s husband suddenly dies. Squawk Squawk For several months she sat alone in her house with the shades pulled and the doors locked. Finally she decided she needed to do something about her situation. The loneliness was killing her. Squawk Squawk. Squawk Squawk. She remembered that her husband had a friend who owned a nice pet store — a pet might be good company. So, Squawk Squawk, she dropped in one afternoon to look over the pet selection. S

The parrot has become something of a problem. I have now recognised that, alongside my grammatical failings regarding the fiendish flesh-eating heathens whom I misconstrued as cannonballs Molly has been – dare I say it, taking the piss!   I put my cannibal error down to both exhaustion and to long and crazily confusing over-complicated sentence structures replete with ungrammatical asides and convoluted syntax infused as often as not with unstructured paragraphs replete with made up spelling rules and excessive and unnecessary-instances of hyphenation.  On-land I had a challenging sub-editor who would, for a favour, correct my syntax and my often-unintended attacks on the English language. Here, on this god-forsaken island there is not even a copy of the Abridged Oxford English Dictionary with which to bolster my prose! But back to Molly. The parrot has what I can only describe as a somewhat offbeat sense of humour. Her suggestion that we name my injured heathen Man Prett

It was only by luck that I managed to drive off the screaming savages. Outnumbered some eighteen to one I was at first fearful for my very life. However, my fearsome appearance, plus the fact that I brandished a loaded rifle, proved sufficient to ward them off and I had only to scream back at them in my native tongue to startle even the boldest of them. ‘Awa ye go ye nasty wee radgies! Awa wi ye before I take this wee sharp blade and cut ye a Glesga smile and maybe perchance a new bum! Am no kiddin an at’s a fact ya filthy bunch o’ heathens!! Plus, a've got a big gun and you've no got one between the whole lot of you!' At this, the largest of the savages - a sheer giant of a man,  raised his club as if to counter my threatening tone. So, I instantly shot him through the throat and followed up with several facial thrusts of my dagger. He grinned widely and dropped down dead at my feet with blood spewing furiously from his wounds. It was a classic case of gaining domin

Mixed joy indeed! I have not only found a supply of potable water, but have by some strangeness of fate stumbled upon a dreadful sight.  I had, since early dawn, been heading inland via a narrow and quite steep wild animal trail when, just as the sun reached its zenith, I detected a familiar sound. I was at once paralysed with the fear that this was just some ghastly resurgence of those lurid and unwelcome hallucinations of yesterday. But as I approached the source of the noise my fears seemed without solid foundation. Before me lay a thin but quite stunning waterfall. A splendid stream of foaming water lay before me  and I immediately threw off my goat-stained apparel (remember the goat from day four of this pandemic?) and rendering some exited version of The Lord is My Shepherd  plunged into the foaming pool which lay beneath the thundering waterfall. My spirits were entirely lifted. I drank my fill from the tumbling waters and bathed completely naked in the clear mountain stre

I t is as I suspected. Today is almost certainly not Friday and yesterday was not Thursday. In fact, it was all a lurid dream brought on no doubt by remnants of that fever from which I am now mainly recovered. Or at least I think I am. And now of course, my priorities have changed. I am intent on taking to the sea again and am determined to return to my native Largo come what may. Meantime personal survival must be my focus. Alongside my need for potable water I will need a supply of meat to provide sustenance while I plan my escape from this island. And I now realise that the shooting of the feral goat was at best a jerk reaction and I now regret not having tamed and fattened the angry beast before firing that fatal shot. The corpse was at best thin and stringy. The meat was tough and my scurvy made chewing difficult. In short, the goat was not up to expectations. But since all now done and dusted, I cannot now make amends for my miscalculation other than to vow that next time

When I awoke today at first light my fever had completely and miraculously vanished and, despite the rigours of the past few days, I felt able to eat and drink a little from my meagre store of salvaged provisions which consist mainly of a damaged water barrel and some soggy ships biscuits. The water however tasted brackish and even the parrot declined to take more than a beak full of wet biscuit. We must find more sustenance and soon! Also, in the cold light of day, I have decided that Gertrude is not a good name for a parrot and will henceforth address her, if indeed she is a she, as Molly. Quite what made me consider calling her Gertrude eludes me now that I am clearer in thought and I can only assume that it was down to my fevered state of mind. Mid-morning, I again scoured the beach for salvage and was pleasantly surprised to stumble upon an intact timber box containing what must surely be the first mates set of engraved pistols. Undamaged and complete with both flints and le

It is now some three days since our ship ran onto that reef and I have become more accepting of the new situation. Later in the week I intend to visit the wreck in the hope of finding both victuals and perhaps a few more tools with which to secure my continuing survival. In short, I am feeling more positive - if such a thing is possible. And I feel much more hopeful regarding a return to some form of normality. That is, if such a thing is indeed possible given the quite extraordinary events of the past few days. The footprint in the sand continues to trouble me but I have, yet again, concluded that further investigation will have to wait at least until the back-end of the week. The hallucinations, which I thought had ended on day two, continue big-time and alongside shades of the Virgin Mary I am now seeing images of other long dead saints including the mysterious  Black Madonna. I obviously am quiet fevered and imagine that this may be the cause of this insanity. Soaked in s

Today I resisted the urge to return to the shipwreck, which still lies firmly on the reef just some hundred yards offshore. To say that I lacked the energy for the trip would not be completely accurate since in truth, the beach is littered with the washed-up remains of my fellow shipmates and through the lens of my telescope I was able to spot the shattered body of the ship’s captain still lashed to the foremast alongside the limp form of the ships dog. I confess I found this sight to be too much for my already overwhelmed senses and will hold off until the ghastly remains are claimed by the sea before venturing out to salvage what little remains on-board. In any case, there is ample treasure to salvage onshore. A washed-up wooden chest revealed a still dry supply of gun-powder and a tea-chest from the ships hold contained both an ample supply of flour and sufficient yeast to make a sourdough starter. Both items will I think aid my chances of survival. That is of course should I

This fending for oneself in a tropical paradise is one thing, but I now need to keep track of time before it runs out or indeed, I go utterly and completely bonkers. For this purpose, I have erected a driftwood timber cross at the north end of the island to record the date of my arrival on this foreign shore. I will, if I am able, cut a single notch each day so as to record the passing of time prior to my rescue from this ghastly place of solitude. Today, in the absence of both bread and meat, I feasted on fermented coconuts. There is an abundance of them on the foreshore. In fact, so many that if one were not careful, they might well prove fatal since if one was to suffer even a glancing blow from a falling fruit, death might well result. Oddly, there is a warning sign advising of the danger. I may have eaten too many of them however since I imagined in my sleep that the Virgin Mary had delivered me from both this place and that my original sins – the gathering of slaves, were

Eager for slave labour I foolishly embarked on a slave gathering voyage and now find myself shipwrecked and alone on a deserted island off the coast of Trinidad. It seems that I am the sole survivor of the venture and I must now seek both sustenance and shelter in this strange and foreign land. The wreck has so far yielded both gunpowder and food plus some fragments of timber from which I have constructed a rudimentary shelter. There was also a rifle and some barrels of rum. Both of which I shall put to good use. The island is quite lush but deserted and providentially has both water and goats in abundance. Fortunately, my journal floated ashore amongst the wreckage and over the coming days of isolation I am intent on recording my lonely struggle. I may well have been hallucinating, but I swear I saw a parrot amongst the treetops … this must surely be a good omen. Duncan Harley is a writer and blogger living in the Garioch. His books are available from Amazon. Just

I’m conflicted. Official advice on the evolving global disaster involves self-isolation and much wringing of hands. But - and I am certainly a big fan of handwashing, self-isolation is pretty much what the digital age is all about anyway. Big-Bit-Corp such as Apple and Amazon – Facebook maybe not so much, WhatsApp certainly, feed on separating us from the herd already. Bring on some digital paranoia. Empty shelves of handwash and big bananas are the thing and the preppy paranoia includes survival gear ranging from assault rifles through to bendy fruit. Even the bananas! What kind of dumb-ass preppy weaponizes bananas? Suddenly everyone from my friendly local car-dealer to the likes of Cineworld wants to be my internet friend. Their reassurances are flooding my inbox with survival hints and assurances that once this is all over, all will be well in the land of car sales and ‘go to’ cinema. I don’t think so. I mean really? Who in Cineworld can even possibly imagine that even 12 m

I am hugely relieved that the defamation action against Andy Wightman MSP brought by Wildcat Haven Enterprises has been settled in his favour. Mr Wightman had been pursued for damages of £750k following allegations that the conservation business had suffered loss due to his comments on social media and in his blogposts. Seemingly Lord Clark has ruled that none of Mr Wightman’s comments were defamatory and Mr Wightman has been quoted as saying that the action should have never have been brought against him. The Court of Session judge noted that Wildcat Haven was ‘engaged in a genuine scheme aimed at the conservation of wildcats run by well-intentioned and enthusiastic individuals. I have to wonder what all the fuss was about though - but I'm sure that all will eventually be revealed on Andy's blog @:   http://www.andywightman.com/ Here meantime, for what its worth, is an extract from chapter 11 of my recent book – The Little History of Aberdeenshire in which I

Sharp rhythms aside, and despite the expansive title strapline, this is really a fairly bland biopic of Gloria Fajardo AKA Gloria Estefan. Thinly woven character development leaves husband/manager Emilio, played here by George Ioannides, lagging. Portrayed as caring and charming and occasionally absurdly comedic, that’s about all you get of the essence of the man who made the star. Gloria, a splendid Philippa Stefani, and her mum and her gran hold the plot strings and the show is really about the Estefan brand. Plot-wise, an attempt is made to set the bands rise against a mid-20 th century geo-socio-political scene in the aftermath of the Cuban Revolution. Havana born Gloria’s family flee to Miami following Castro’s takeover. Dad Jose – Elia Lo Tauro, participates in the disastrous Bay of Pigs CIA inspired invasion of Cuba and is later exposed to a toxic chemical defoliant whilst serving in Vietnam. He gets ill and dies. A later traffic accident leaves Gloria wheel-ch

The planned township of Macduff has a relatively short history. As recently as 1759 the rent rolls for the settlement, known then as Down or Doune, recorded just 34 tenancies along with 400 inhabitants who subsisted through crofting and fishing from what was probably a very basic harbour. Today’s population is around 3850.  Burgh status came in 1783 and in that year, the first town council sat down to deliberate on the improvement of the burgh. Markets were licenced, vagrants were ostracised and residents forbidden to throw excrement and general rubbish onto to the streets. The Earls of Fife invested heavily in the town and encouraged improvements in agricultural practices. They clearly understood the potential of exploiting the natural resources of the sea and began harbour improvements in the 1760s. The harbour has been upgraded at regular intervals up to the present day, with ownership passing from James Duff, the second Earl of Fife, to the town council on March 1 1897, for