To the Festival!

My grandfather was  Duncan Munro who eventually left his beloved Scotland
for his beloved English wife  to live in Northern England where they would have three daughters, Ruth and Catherine and a  son  Alec. They would adopt Sue, who would go on
to marry her adopted brother Alec.  Duncan Munro came from the highlands, from the picturesque  fishing Village of Lochinver   It was from here at his cottage that
overlooked the working bay where  my family (my foster mother was Catherine) spent all our summers,  that we would watch aghast as the northern lights sprayed multicoloured magic across the horizon and into space. .

With  mountain Sullivan on the horizon and salmon jumping in the Inver flicking their tales as if mimicking the fish hook,  this was a childhood paradise that could not be equalled.    The Lush air filtered through peat and heather from the  mountains from one side and
rushed toward us from  across the atlantic ocean on the  other. The deserted beaches, hidden glassy lochs so still that to dive into them would be to jump in the  sky,   the heather higher than our heads filled with the pungent perfume  of lavender and endless;  the insect spittle dotted forests of green and brown bracken;   sheep tracks made themselves into  pathways over hundreds of years and  gave us children the famous five  adventures that seemed only possible through dreams. Through these trails  lined with bracken to secret coves and caves we winded, caves that lay open on the beach waiting for us or high tide. The sense of danger mingled with the sense of discovery.

 There was quicksand and Marble, big pieces of  white veined glinting marble jutting out of
the ground like debris fallen from space.  The holidays were heaven as home life was hell. I left this family at eleven and the memory of these summers would neither be replenished  nor rejuvenated and so, undisturbed the memory  became mummified and was wheeled into the  museum in my mind  next to a sign that said “You Love Scotland!”

I got the train at 7am this morning from Kings Cross – I’ve just left England and
entered Scotland. The scenery is stunning. The last time I made this journey was on the night train earlier this year when I was making a documentary about  the WH Auden 
poem Night Mail

After eleven eyars of age it was not until i was eighteen years that I’d visit scotland again to  The Edinburgh Fringe Festival with my first Edinburgh performances – I did forty five
minute readings of poetry –  with Leigh Drama Centre.  The main play by Leigh Drama
Centre was called  The Red Death, from which I wrote a poem called The Red Death which was published a few years later in my first book Tender Fingers In A Clenched Fist.

Scotland is woven into me.  It’s not without  pride that I am now published by Canongate books, Scotlands most respected publishing house, amongst some of its greatest
writers including Norman Macaig who wrote so well of that same mountain indelibly written into my childhood memory, Sullivan.  If you match this with canongates American
output including Bukowski Gil Scot Heron and the US presidential candidate,   I am truly at home. Little known fact is the Gil Scot Herons Father was the first black football player ito play for a Scottish team.

I am here at Luke Wrights Poetry Party and I’m on stage in the late afternoon and late
evening. Not drinking is such a wonderful thing. I am clear,  have memory and alert.  Today I met Murray Lachlan Young and saw him read his poems on stage, something I’ve wanted to do for some time. I understood immediately his on stage modus operandi. I enjoyed our discussion backstage about the limits and limitlessness of our poems on the BBC radio four programme Saturday Live.  I enjoyed his reading too.

While I was on stage today while on stage I saw a beautiful  small powerful storm of a woman  sat cross legged in the audience. Her name is Chiwoniso or Chi (pron: chee).  Chi’s one of the worlds most respected mbira players, from Zimbabwe where she is stop on the street famous.  We met first in Durban South Africa were we played Invisible  Kisses on the Durban Stage at Poetry Africa  – she on Mbira and me in the poem, she sang with me too. Must get the recording of that gig. We then met again in her home
country of Zimbabwe at The Harare International Festival of Arts which I played last year. And here she is in Scotland.  

The company of artists is  a wonderful thing. I finish my reading and we find a café in The Grassmarket, sit laugh and catch up on the whirlwinds.   Before the coffee is cold Chiwoniso is walking into the Edinburgh throngs confident that wherever the venue is it is not more than fifteen minutes away.  I go back to my hotel to try and write an article on 1967 Summer of Love for The Guardian which I started on the train today.  At 11pm I walk onto the stage for another reading.  I am staying in a little pad next to Aurthurs Seat a jut of earth and land that overshadows Edinburgh and where once I flew kites with Jamie Byng.  At 11.20pm I get back on stage and returning to my apartment situated near the Pleasance I look at the article one more time and  sleep – really looking forward to
tomorrow.   Tomorrow I go to an artists studio. I can not wait.  Tonight I sleep. I’ve travelled four hundred miles. This whole city is alive.

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