Autobiographical

Seaside holidays in Iran

Seaside holidays in Iran

The Caspian Sea is the world’s largest inland body of water. It lies between the Caucasus mountains and the steppes of Central Asia. Millions of years ago it was connected to the Black Sea but it is now a virtually enormous enclosed lake with saltwater, and sea tides. It borders Iran, Russia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan and Kazakhstan, but its temperate southern shores belong to Iran and its sandy beaches are a hugely popular holiday destination.

Summers are hot in Tehran. Families who can afford it often take a holiday on the shores of the Caspian Sea.  This is universally known as going North (Farsi: Shomȃl). My father had  relatives who rented a house on the beach there and we would often be invited to spend a week with them. I loved our summer holidays in Shomȃl. The journey by road from dusty Tehran to the Caspian coast takes several hours to negotiate hairpin bends through the massive Alborz mountain range. At the half-way mark we would stop in the hilltop village of Gach-Sar where the single teahouse supplied ice-cold doogh (a fizzy yoghurt drink) and refreshing slices of watermelon. Continuing our trek through the mountains thorny scrub and rocky outcrops give way to forested slopes, green tea plantations and lush rice paddies. Every few miles along the roadside barefoot lads would be hawking punnets of sour berries and roasted corn. Their echoing cries of tameshk! (blackberries) and balȃl! (corncob) would follow us on the wind as we sped past, and before too long we’d begin to pick up the salty tang of the sea.

The beach house was simple and mostly devoid of furniture, but our relatives would arrive with massive Persian carpets rolled onto their car roofs, and these would be spread out wall-to-wall over the stone floors. Everything took place on these beautiful carpets – where we sat cross-legged to eat around a sofreh (tablecloth), and where we also slept on cotton mattresses spread haphazardly on the floor. In the morning we children would run from the house straight down to the beach to swim and paddle in the warm shallow waters of the Caspian Sea. Sometimes,  if we were lucky, a local fisherman might call selling tiny amounts of fresh caviar.

Beach holidays on the shores of the Caspian Sea were special, and their memory still lingers as a vestige of the golden time in the minds of all Iranians who were young in the final decade of the Shah’s reign. Now that we are mostly an ageing diaspora scattered across various continents, our conversations on social media are sometimes prefaced with: Do you remember that perfect summer in Shomȃl?

Posted by f.v.robb in Autobiographical, Culture, Writing, 0 comments
My private hell

My private hell

To the non-believer heaven and hell are hypothetical spiritual concepts. What exactly is hell? There has been enough human cruelty during this millennium to for us to imagine how awful its theological counterpart can be. The adage that it is better to build a fence at the top of a cliff rather than to maintain an ambulance at the bottom drives earnest evangelists to warn us of the dangers of denying God that await unbelievers await in the afterlife,

Hell is sometimes called the place where there is no God. The thought of a complete separation from God destroys me, but since God is omnipresent, it’s His presence among the unrepentant that will be an unending torment. My own earthly hell is the lancinating fear of disappointing God – His divine regret that I put my hand to the plough in the heady days of summer but turned back when the going got easy.

Morphing into Mrs Comfortable Church-goer? I must not let it happen.

 

 

Posted by f.v.robb, 0 comments
Fujo

Fujo

We adopted a Glasgow tenement cat from a lady who worked in Africa. She had named him Fujo which means “mischief” in Swahili.  He was an opinionated and very independent four year-old moggy. Despite being raised as an indoor cat in an upstairs terraced building he quickly learned how to use a cat-flap after he came to us in Edinburgh and eventually he became an intrepid adventurer who patrolled the streets of genteel south Morningside. His patch included the doorstep of big houses where his pitiful miaowing would result in his being invited in to dine on titbits. Fujo loved food and that he would often sit staring expectantly at his empty feeding bowl, and even attemptto lick the pattern off it after finishing his meal.  I’m including a photo of us with our first new grandchild just to illustrate his rather large size!

In all the years he lived with us, Fujo never did anything except what he himself wanted. He came and went as he pleased, slept wherever he wanted, ate whenever and whatever he wanted, invariably turning his nose away from the low-fat diet recommended by the vet. Fujo also only purred on his own terms – rarely on our laps – perched over the computer keyboard or stretched across a doorway. Despite all these foibles we loved him dearly as an irreplaceable friend, and shed tears on his demise.

Unlike most domesticated animals, cats are not ‘useful’ to humans.  Cattle, sheep, pigs and goats provide us with meat and dairy. Horses, camels, donkeys and yaks are means of transport. Dogs become our loyal companions. But in the thousands of years that cats have lived with us they have remained aloof and inscrutable.

So why do we love cats so much? Maybe simply because they are cats!

Posted by f.v.robb, 0 comments
A hair-raising Journey

A hair-raising Journey

Since James was fluent in French having been to school in Paris when his father was posted there, as a senior surgeon he applied to work in France for a year, and we were excited to be going from Leeds to live in Grenoble in south-west France. At that time we had two very young children so our luggage included large items like a double buggy, travel cots, and of course, James’s double bass. All of that,  plus four passengers, wouldn’t fit in a single car, so we had to travel in two vehicles. Without properly thinking things through, we made the innocent planthat James would lead in the front car taking passports, map, money, and his double bass, and that I would follow behind with babies and most of the luggage. I envisioned an idyllic meander through rural French countryside. However, because this was the era before mobile phones, internet, and even the Euro, it was completely hare-brained.

On the ferry crossing from Dover to Calais we encountered stormy gales which blew us off course. We finally docked, hours later, not in France, but in Belgium. I’m not a great sailor at the best of times, and because I was driving, I couldn’t take anti-nausea medication. In fact I was so ill that I lay on the floor of the heaving vessel thinking I was about to die!  When we finally docked in Zeebrugge it was dark and raining, but the fresh air rallied me. As the port officials began to wave vehicles off the ferry, James bundled the babies into my car, then stuck his head through my car window and said: “Follow me out of the port, keep on my tail, and stay on the right!”  I remember looking up briefly and seeing his rear-lights disappearing into the stormy night. I started my engine and followed car off the ferry.

Predictably, we very quickly we lost each other in the darkness and pouring rain, but I drove on gamely, following the road and keeping my eyes on the car lights ahead of me, hoping James knew where he was going.  After a few miles the car I had been tailing, suddenly overtook a lorry and sped away in the distance. I lost sight of it very quickly. Where was James? I stupidly realised I had no passports, maps or French francs, and two tired kids were wailing on the back seat. I began to panic. Why on earth was I was driving on a dark road in a foreign country with no clear idea of where I was?  Realising the danger I was in,  I tearfully pulled over in next lay-by. After sitting for a while in the darkness with traffic whizzing past me with the kids ominously silent in the back, my tears soon gave way to a seething anger – how dare my husband drive off into the night and leave me in this predicament!

Suddenly, and completely out of the blue, a car screeched to a halt right behind me in the lay-by. The driver opened his door and walked towards me in the pouring rain. He motioned me to wind down my steamed-up window, and I found myself confronting a very worried but very relieved James.  “Thank God! I’ve found you!” he said. “I thought you were following me, but when I turned off the motorway the car behind me shot past and I then realised it wasn’t you that had been on my tail! It’s a miracle that we’ve actually found each other,  and that we’re all safe!” Well, I can say that my poor husband stood there in the dark, getting soaked in the lashing rain while I spluttered quite an earful! He had the grace to be contrite. After finally ridding myself of all my pent-up indignation, I got out of the car and we hugged one another at the roadside.

God was indeed looking out for us that day, and we had learned a valuable lesson.

 

 

 

o

Posted by f.v.robb in Autobiographical, 0 comments
Boot Camp

Boot Camp

Early in 2012, just before my retirement from the NHS, I decided to get really fit in a short space of time. I was then 62 years old and the last thing I wanted was to be competing with brawny men, so I opted for GI Jane – an all-female keep-fit week in Kent. It was mid-winter in Scotland and very cold, so I thought by choosing a keep-fit camp in the south of England would allow me to escape freezing weather. Unfortunately the winter of 2012 saw Kent was blanketed with snow while Scotland basked in better weather – so much for good planning! Two Marines on annual leave from the navy were in charge of the camp which was run along military lines.

My fellow campers were at least 30 years younger than me, some were policewomen, and others were getting ready to run marathons. At the outset we were divided into two competing teams and were each issued with a personal weapon  – a wood “pretend” rifle – which we were under strict instructions  never to let out of our sight.  In the photo I am racing with an iron box containing heavy sandbags. Tasks included running along country roads in a foursome formation at 5 am bearing a makeshift stretcher on top of each had been placed a tree trunk (“wounded soldier”). Any seemingly inane comment from us such as “it’s too heavy” or “I need a break”,  was met by a stern:  “So are you going to abandon your wounded comrade to enemy fire? “Another back-breaking exercise was crawling on the snowy ground for half a mile spread-eagled on a car tyre.

One day one of the girls arrived for morning line-up with her “rifle” which she had apparently forgotten under the dining table the night before.  This was a capital infringement and resulted in the entire squad being punished by having to execute 50 burpees on the spot! Meals were measly and you had to eat everything. In fact you wouldn’t survive if you didn’t. someone commented that the entire days’ rations would fit into her eye socket!

I’m glad I did the week and proud of my certificate to show I survived it, but never again -I’m too much of a softie! The most important thing I learned was that keeping fit as a townie in the city can be achieved without belonging to a gym or using special equipment: by pacing yourself on quiet roads running and counting lampposts, running up and down stairs in your own home and upping the number every session, improvising weights with canned food tins……Oh, and an iron will to never give up!

 

Posted by f.v.robb in Autobiographical, 0 comments