Duncan Harley

You may have stumbled upon the writings of Melanie Reid of Spinal Column fame. Injured in an equine fall and now as recovered as she can be, she writes Notebook for The Times. And a good thing too. Always entertaining and always reflective she pens useful words. Today’s Notebook column leads with the economic disaster facing the Campbeltown Creamery. A farmer-led crowdfunding appeal has failed and the century old enterprise seems likely to close with both job losses and consequent effects for a west coast economy dependant mainly on fishing and tourism. In short, this end-game will have grave consequences for the 29 or so Mull of Kintyre farms who up until now routinely sent their milk for processing prior to shipment to the multitude of Tesco and Morrisons outlets up and down the land. She writes eloquently about ‘The ripples of human misery which accompany such change’ and states that ‘Scotland’s bovine population is at its lowest since 1957.’ I have no insight as to the sourc...

I had almost forgotten the 60 th a nniversary of the overthrow of Tibet by the Chinese Liberation Army. A Times newspaper report today recalls the shelling of Lhasa during the final stages of the take-over. Truckloads of Red Guards were quick on the heels of the professional soldiers and, alongside the desecration of the monasteries, a centralist agricultural policy ensured  widespread famine. Millions suffered and tens of thousands died of starvation. After all, you can’t easily grow wheat at 15,000 feet and at sub-zero temperatures. The palaces have of course been done up and re-painted and the monasteries annually draw in a few thousand Western tourists eager to breath in the blessings. Below the Potala lies a vast concrete square. When Palin, Michael not Sarah, visited in the 1980’s it was occupied by symbols of military power. A fighter jet sat incongruously below the high walls alongside groups of excited Chinese tourists. The Chinese of course love big flat squares. Lo...

I well recall the news coverage on the night that Pan Am Flight 103 came down in the Scottish borders some 30 years ago. A pregnant wife was on a late shift at the local geriatric hospital and it was cold and dark and windy with the promise of frost. Sky and Beeb and local radio reported that a petrol station on the M74 between Moffat and Lockerbie had caught fire. But it was of course much worse than that. Oddly, I met a lady long after the event who had been the recipient of a lucky escape. Ella Ramsden was her name as I recall and her house was badly damaged by the aircraft's fuel-filled wings which destroyed Sherwood Crescent and killed her neighbours. She survived unhurt although her house was pretty much blown to pieces. I seem to recall that her dog had wanted out just before the explosion and that she had gone to the back door to take him out. That probably saved her life since the back of the house remained standing. A local newspaper has this week reported th...

The weekend papers are brim-full of John Lennon tributes. It’s an anniversary of when he died. Shot five times from behind by a fan intent on taking over his fame, Lennon bled to death in a New York street some four decades ago while we all listened intently to his music. As the tabloids screamed the news, the perp – some sad man called Chapman was arrested, tried and incarcerated. Seemingly, aged 63, he is about to get out of the penitentiary – that is if he can be pronounced sane. Today’s Times Mag’ carries a piece by biographer Ray Connolly who describes himself as a friend of the dead musician. Fluently illustrated with shots and quotes from the day, it makes for a good read although one has to wonder how well Connolly actually knew the dead star and why he waited 38 years to tell the tale. It’s a bit like when a famous gangster dies. Headlines scream the loss and news-weary tabloids predict the death of crime as we know it. Twill never be the same. Extortion is now o...

There’s a forecast for rain tonight, but I doubt if it will come to much, and the Chinese folk next-door have been chucking rubbish into my front garden. Lucy of course is mainly oblivious and is tucked up in the shed. It has a black-felted roof and is splendidly warm despite the fairly obvious clutter. At some rotund age or ever she is quite entitled. “Do you know how old I am” she purrs as the vitamin-enhanced cat-soup goes down.  As I say, she can do more or less as she wants in her dotage. My son says she is 22. I disagree and suspect a year older. The railway station cat at Aberdeen lived to 26, but Lucy probably doesn’t really care about such niceties. Last week, and despite her age, she took lumps out of a local tom, and I don’t blame her. I may yet set her on the Chinese next door – that is, if one is allowed to even say such things nowadays. They, the Orientals, are probably very very very fine folk. But chucking stuff into a neighbour’s patch kind of makes a moc...