First attempt at HDR
This is my first shot at an HDR image, and I’m very pleased with the result. The original photos were taken from a hilltop tribal village in northern Thailand last year. It was a breathtaking view and one of the best experiences of my trip.
Shout out to Trey Ratcliff’s excellent Stuck in Customs blog for the tutorial.
“Parla Inglese?” – My experience of Rome
St Peter's Square, Rome
Italian customer service is legendary. Everyone who’s experienced this wondrous, infuriating and frankly astounding phenomenon has their own story. Well, here’s mine.
We were in the bustling Termini station in Rome, the great city’s main rail hub, on a busy Saturday afternoon. We wanted to ask about tickets to Florence for a possible trip the following day, and whether there were any special deals. Noticing the ‘Customer Service’ desk adjacent to the crammed ticket office, we join a small queue. A simple quest in most other countries, but not here.
Within 15 minutes we’ve moved four inches, and behind us stand at least 20 impatient travellers. Every so often someone tries to sweet-talk their way to the front, before a gruff Roman in front of us sends them packing to the back of the line. At one point an elderly priest is even given his marching orders in no uncertain terms. Remarkably, one young Scandinavian woman succeeds where others have failed. But her sincerity is written across her face as she begs each queuer in turn to let her through – her train is leaving in five minutes and she’s genuinely frantic.
After parting us like the Red Sea, the woman reaches the threshold of the counter. But there are two customers occupying the attention of both advisers, and judging by their litany of questions it seems like they’re trying to get to Milan via Moscow. Finally, the girl gets her chance and bounds forward. The stony faced middle-aged madam (there are two of them and they’re practically inseparable in my memory) looks her up and down, impervious to her panic, and sends her, distraught, in the direction of the ticket office with a wave of the hand that is contempt expressed in a single flourish.
Now it’s our turn. Or is it? Our adviser, oblivious to the baying mob that is now around 50-strong, walks away from the counter, shuffles some paper absent-mindedly by the printer, exchanges some words with her colleague, then, her nose aimed firmly at the ceiling, returns to her seat and deigns to call us forward.
I offer my usual “parla inglese?”
“Nil,” she replies, curtly.
Undeterred, we manage to express our question about prices. She interrupts us mid-flow with the set price, which apparently never changes, no matter the time or train. Having made it clear that she is in no mood to offer any more “customer service”, she looks straight over our shoulders and calls the next person, and we have no choice but to trudge away, knowing nothing more than we did half an hour ago, apart from the fact that there’s some truth in the Italian stereotype.
But that’s just one story. There was also the bartender who spoke fluent English and suggested I try his recommended beer, the old pizzeria owner who spent the whole evening loudly greeting each and every diner, and the courteous woman who rented out her apartment to us and was a pleasant, if rarely seen, host.
Actually, I don’t want to complain too much about the way Italians treat tourists, because it’s part of who they are. On the flip side of the coin, what would Rome be like if you couldn’t sit at a café and watch the couples exploding in rage one minute and embracing the next, the old men who know everyone in the neighbourhood, or the manicured women strutting imperiously along on their four-inch heels? They’re hard-wired for confrontation, for the kind of heightened fits of passion that would entail either fistfights or official complaints were they to take place in Britain.
Ah yes, but there’s still the 2,500 years of history lurking in the crumbling remnants of the Empire, the Renaissance glories of the Sistine Chapel, the ornate sculpted fountains of Bernini, the winding, trattoria-filled streets of Trastevere or the bustling markets that crowd the piazzas.
It can be frustrating when you need to do something or go somewhere that involves seeking the aid of the locals, but that’s Rome. It was born on an arrogant belief in its own superiority, and it’s not going to change that for all the camera-clutching tourists in the world.
A few tips if you’re going…
- While I wasn’t as impressed with the pizzas as I thought I’d be, Pizzeria da Gildo in Trastevere gets my nod for its generously topped capricciosa.
- If you have a day spare, take a trip to Ossia Antica, a virtually complete Roman port town, and the seaside resort of Lido. While the beach isn’t the best, you can take in both these destinations with your Metro ticket.
- The Vatican Museums, which house the Sistine Chapel, are a must-see, but I’m not alone in that view. So you need to get there before it opens at 8.45am if you don’t want to spend half your day in a queue.
- Fed up with the overpriced drinks? Stop by Il Baccanale in Trastevere. It’s a cosy place with good quality beer at near UK prices, cheap cocktails, and friendly staff.
- At the Colosseum it’s worth paying the five euros extra to skip the queue and get the guided tour. I learned that ‘arena’ means sand in Latin. You can’t put a price on nuggets like that. And remember, the ticket also gets you into the Forum and Palatine Hill.
There are more photos from my holiday on my Flickr page.
A weekend in the Highlands
The unconquered Buachaille Etive Mor, pictured from the car on the way home
For weeks I had been looking forward to it, thinking of the sweeping mountain landscapes, of challenging hikes followed by rewarding drinks, of campfires and camaraderie. Even the occasional stag or golden eagle would pop up in the film that was forming in my mind, as if to remind me that this was no central belt getaway but the real, great outdoors.
But as our weekend trip to Glen Coe drew nearer, a great big cloud drifted over this idyllic vision in the form of the BBC weather forecast, which, of course, predicted heavy rain.
Undeterred, our group of nine (it’s amazing how appealing the chance to get out of Edinburgh during festival-time can be) sets off in two cars on Saturday morning, heading north-west, through Stirling, Crianlarich, Tyndrum, over Rannoch Moor and eventually into the great curve of Glen Coe itself, passing the rocky sentinel that is Buachille Etive Mor.
This mountain was meant to be our main challenge, but as we don’t reach the campsite near the Clachaig Inn until after two o’clock in the afternoon, we decide that the six-hour walk isn’t achievable today and we half-heartedly postpone the ascent till tomorrow.
Instead, we pitch our tents and wander along the single-track road towards Glen Coe village, stopping for a picnic at a wee loch as the sun threatens to make an appearance. Along with a gang of ducks, who end up fighting over the scraps of bread we throw at their webbed feet.
Back at the campsite, we now attempt to build a fire. It seems like the obvious thing to do. Us males sense our caveman gene kicking in and so we go off to gather the logs, while the females of the species whisper doubtfully about our plan. With the help of a neighbouring camper who has come prepared with firelighters and kindling, we get it lit. But keeping it lit is the problem, and one which defeats us when the only timber to hand is absolutely sodden through.
Feeling slightly emasculated, there’s only one thing for it: to the pub! We make it to the Clachaig Inn just before the kitchen shuts and sit down to a decent, meaty meal. The lounge bar is spacious but nothing more than a dining room, so we head through to the proper bar to catch the last few songs of a local bluegrass band called The Ballachulish Hellhounds.
They’re great, but tragically the place calls last orders at half eleven, when we’re only just getting into the spirit of the night.
Ach well, back to the campsite we trudge, in the pitch black and pouring rain. There we have a few more swigs of whisky before reluctantly testing whether the cheap, hastily procured tents will guard us against the Highland elements.
They don’t, or at least mine doesn’t, and the next morning I wake to feel my feet in a puddle, with the whole front section of the tent under a layer of water. This is the part of camping I don’t enjoy, and instead of getting up and moving on, I decide that dozing is a better option.
It doesn’t really matter by this point, because the group consensus is that it’s still too wet to take on Buachaille Etive Mor. There are other factors, such as some pretty unsuitable footwear and several mid-level hangovers.
As we drive off, the cloud-covered peak of Stob Dearg, our initial target, looms dramatically up away to our right, and it’s difficult to see how nine of us would have made it up there on a day like today. We carry on south, on the slow descent to the lowlands, the scenery gradually becoming less magnificent, more humdrum, until eventually we’re back in traffic-clogged Edinburgh.
And by now, of course, the sun is shining.
Thailand… the mother of all holiday destinations
The unspoilt beauty of the Ang Thong marine park
Can it really be over two weeks since I got home from Thailand? Judging by my fast-fading t-shirt tan and increasingly infrequent bouts of beach-set, work-based day-dreaming, I guess it can.
While Thailand is one of the more ‘westernized’ of South East Asian countries, there was still so much that amazed and confounded. The frankly terrifying traffic in Bangkok, the view over miles of jungle from a hilltop tribe village, the lengths people go to charm gullible tourists out of their Baht, the luminescent colour of the water around the islands in the south, the abundance of ornate Buddhist shrines in front of every property, the teeming street-level life in every town and, when we were there, the fact that every telegraph pole in the country was adorned with an election poster of some stern-faced candidate.
Bangkok's Chinatown is a barrage of sights, sounds and smells
I spent just over two weeks there with friends, following the well-beaten tourist trail from Bangkok up to Chiang Mai for the outdoors experience, followed by the long journey south to the lazy island of Koh Pha Ngan for daytime relaxation and night-time recreation.
But far from any predictable, packaged trip, this was an eye-opening, dare-I-say epic journey that has really given me the jolt to explore more of the world beyond the comfortable, reigned in West.
The view from the Lahu hill tribe village we visited at dusk
It’s impossible to count the ways that a place like Thailand boggles the mind of a relatively inexperienced traveller. The overall impression I got was that, whereas life in Britain is rigidly segmented and regulated, life in Thailand seeps and smudges with few controls or barriers. Opening hours, health and safety, the licencing of designer brands, traffic hierarchies, the capacity of a scooter, and, famously, gender, are all very grey areas in this part of the world.
While the Thai government has been known to be extremely tough when it wants to be, an unflustered, genial mood seems to define the national character, making life seem particularly sweet in a country that, despite recent political strife and ongoing economic hardship, is blessed with some of the finest scenery, nature, food and, of course, beaches in the world.
I’ll definitely be back.
Elephant trekking in the conservation camp near Chiang Mai
I have a few more Thailand photos over on my Flickr…
T in the f***ing Park
I’ve been home from Thailand for over a week and I still haven’t posted anything about it here. I’ll rectify that soon, but in the meantime, some thoughts on T in the f***ing Park.
Last weekend was the festival’s 18th year and my eighth visit. I lost my T virginity in 2001 or 2002 I think. Back then it was all for fun – camping, reaching a sustainable level of drunkenness for an entire weekend, laughing at the dire bands, enjoying the good ones, not giving a shit if your tent was completely flooded. Did I mention the drinking?
Then in my student days I entered T exile, preferring to sample the offerings of Spanish festivals like Benicassim, Summercase and Primavera. But for the past four or five years I’ve been back at T in the much less fun capacity of music journalist. This obviously has its advantages – free ticket, access to the not-really-that-special hospitality area, less slumming it. But every year I quickly realise that T in the f***ing Park is almost impossible to really truly enjoy unless you’re in some state of considerable inebriation.
Still, when I wasn’t reviewing, tweeting or publishing this year I tried my level best at getting into the T spirit while sober. The Slam Tent proved the biggest challenge to overcome – Boots could learn something from the customer service techniques of its army of pill sellers. But there was no way I was missing Leftfield – an old favourite of mine – and I forced myself to bounce along with the hands-in-the-air hordes.
T in the f***ing Park gets a lot of stick from us music snobs. We dismiss it as a neds’ holiday, a celebration of knuckle-dragging, brutish drunkenness and rampant commercialism.
Okay, fair enough, but I’m getting a little tired of this sniping. It might not be to all of our tastes, but the undeniable fact is that 85,000 people turn up, have an evidently brilliant time and usually return the following year. To those who slate the choice of headliners or the mediocre pap that usually precedes it on the Main Stage, it’s a necessary evil if you want to stage a mainstream event and subsidise the smaller stages that host the genuinely exciting international acts and breakthrough Scots bands.
And you have to admire the level of organisation and professionalism that goes into just making it happen. It’s a premier league event, almost equal in scale to the likes of Glastonbury and Coachella, and Scotland cannot always claim to compete with the biggest and best of the world in other areas of life. This year, for the first time, I wondered whether we should actually be proud of T in the f***ing Park as a great Scottish event that doesn’t involve tartan or bagpipes (at least not as the main draw).
You might be thinking to yourself, ‘Yeah, but I bet he wouldn’t go if he had to pay a couple of hundred quid for a ticket’. And you’d be right. It would take a phenomenal line-up for me to part with that sort of cash, especially when I can get a foreign holiday with a festival included for a little more. But then maybe I’m just too old for it.
Or not old enough. I saw countless middle-aged couples at Balado this year, unashamedly joining the youthful majority in their lager-fuelled revelry.
Good on ‘em. Maybe I’ll be one of them in 15-20 years when T in the f***ing Park is approaching its 40th birthday.
But if I hear that chant of ‘Here we, here we, here we f***ing go’ one more time, I reserve the right to reverse all opinions expressed in this post.
Take a look at our T in the Park reviews and photos over on Radar.
Watch this: Machines of Loving Grace
If you haven’t watched the three-part Adam Curtis documentary series called ‘All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace’, you have until Monday 13 June on the BBC iPlayer.
Like most people currently raving about it online, it took me by surprise.
The Beeb have given Curtis free reign to make the most wide-ranging and wilfully weird documentary about modern ideologies and their origins you’re ever likely to see.
It’s as aesthetically striking as it is thought-provoking, clashing grainy footage of the first computer technicians against doe-eyed mammals one minute, before veering off into some other loosely-related realm the next.
The soundtrack is also inspired, including Clint Mansell’s foreboding theme from Moon…
The last episode tells the story of Bill Hamilton, the brilliant scientist who travelled to the Congo amidst a brutal civil war to collect chimpanzee faeces in the misguided belief that he could prove that US workers had accidentally created the HIV virus during vaccine testing decades earlier. He died after contracting malaria and refusing to take medication for it.
In the same programme he weaves together ideas about free will, the “selfish gene” theory, racial stereotyping and how liberal values led to bloodshed in the Rwanda crisis.
It’s brilliantly tangential, endlessly fascinating, and if you haven’t seen it, set aside three hours and make sure you do so before Monday.
And if it’s a little pretentious, so what? At least it’s television that actually forces you to think about some of the big questions of our time, rather than whether a rustic-style kitchen is preferable to a sleek, modern alternative for a particular London terraced house.
Wee Jaunt: A guided tour without the cringe factor
Lady North perform in Fleshmarket Close
One thing I’ve never done in my nine years as a resident of Edinburgh has been to take a guided tour of the grand old place. That’s because these tours are usually led by irritatingly boisterous am-dram types dressed badly in jester/wench costumes.
But I broke my duck on this front at the weekend, when I joined about 50-100 other music fans on Detour‘s Wee Jaunt. And there wasn’t a codpiece in sight.
The whole idea is that it’s a secret line-up, and so there was a level of uncertainty, nay, trepidation, beforehand. But it doesn’t take long to be swept along on the upbeat atmosphere – and that was without a drop of alcohol.
I saw some great mini-gigs – especially Conquering Animal Sound and Lady North – in some unlikely locations, and you can read my full review on Radar.
Ally McCrae and David Weaver carry off their Detour exploits with the kind of carefree tomfoolery that makes it all seem effortless. Staging an event like this is anything but.
Here are a few more of my photos from the day.
Pinning down a setlist for Pinups
On Friday I did my second annual DJ stint at the Pinup bloggers’ night in Glasgow (more about last year). I had a great time, as I always do at Pinups – it’s just the sort of indie clubnight I wish someone would start in Edinburgh. No pretensions, cheapish drink, a few live bands, quality music; is that such a tough formula to crack?
I started thinking about what songs to fill my hour-long slot with a few weeks ago. Mostly, I just scoured SoundCloud and Hype Machine, which unearthed a few gems, the latter being especially good for cool remixes. Here’s a one we dropped quite early in the set:
Once I had a ‘longlist’ of tracks I thought we could get away with, I started whittling down to an hour’s worth of musical manna. This included things like Daft Punk, Robyn, The Stooges, ESG, Ladytron, Yeasayer and Ratatat.
On the night I was joined by my pal Ben, who used to man the decks at the student union indie disco in Edinburgh. He has a better idea than I do of what you should play when, judging by the paying public’s reaction. This resulted in one or two hairy moments where we were quibbling over what to play next with seconds left of the previous song, but it was another lesson that no matter how you prepare for a DJ set, at least 50% of that goes out the window on the night.
There was quite a lot of stuff which didn’t make the final cut, simply because they were a bit obscure or didn’t have the right energy. One was this nice remix of the Beirut song ‘Nantes’:
There were also back-up tunes which were drafted in at times when we wanted to keep people dancing – LCD Soundsystem’s ‘All My Friends’ went down particularly well, with one guy telling us this was “the greatest song ever”.
I’d also like to apologise to the three ladies who requested songs – one band I’d never heard of, Goldfrapp and Beyonce’s “new one”.
I’d also like to thank our nominated band, Tokamak, for tearing it up in their ear-splitting set. And sporting some unusual headgear.
And finally, thanks again to the Pinup lads for having us. Find out more about their nights here.
It was a candid comment of the sort we’re not used to in the inane realm of post-match interviews. Asked whether the target for next season is promotion, John McGlynn, architect of Raith Rovers’ season of over-achievement, refused to gloss over the grim predicament facing the club.
The practiced tone of upbeat, football-manager-speak noticably fell away as the likeable McGlynn responded: “Now that’s a different story, now we’re talking about something completely different. Raith Rovers Football Club are now in a really bad situation.”
Rarely do you hear such undisguised pessimism in the rhetoric of football, but there was worse to come.
McGlynn explained his negativity by stating that the loss of local rivals Dunfermline from the First Division – and the inevitable arrival of the poorly supported Hamilton from the SPL – means a major loss of revenue, and a subsequent cutback in the club’s budget for players.
Gazing into the void, McGlynn continued: “I’m afraid that eh… promotion…”
There followed a pitiful “huh” that dismissed that notion as fantasy, before he added, matter-of-factly: ”If we’ve done what we’ve done this season and we have to cut then you’d have to think that next season is going to be a difficult season.”
McGlynn’s dose of realism came after Raith slumped to a last-minute defeat at home to Queen of the South, in the same moment that Dunfermline fans were staging a pitch invasion after their team’s victory over Morton sealed the title. In truth, the business was concluded a week earlier at East End Park, a painful loss which finally killed off Raith’s gallant promotion push.
Undoubtedly, it’s been a remarkable season for Rovers, in which John McGlynn has taken a very ordinary group of players and a very small squad to the very brink of the SPL. It hasn’t all been plain sailing, especially in the 19 games since the victorious New Year’s derby (won 8, drawn 4, lost 7) – and the falling away of Falkirk and Dundee have undoubtedly helped our cause.
Dunfermline only came charging back in the final months after buying three quality players in the January transfer window, and while you can’t take away from their triumph, as a Raith fan the sense of gloom is only hardened by the realisation that this was our best chance to get back up, and perhaps the only chance we’ll have for the foreseeable future.
McGlynn’s efforts have not gone unnoticed. Scotland boss Craig Levein has already sung his praises, and tonight he was named manager of the year by his peers at the PFA Scotland awards. The big question is whether he chooses to cash in his chips and take the SPL or English job he deserves, or see out his contract at Stark’s Park. I’m sure most Raith fans would wish him well if he does choose to move on this summer, as the suspicion is that he has taken the club as far as he can.
Speculation aside, what hope can Raith fans cling to for next season, after such a brutal assessment from our own manager?
Well, we’ll have to readjust our ambitions in the short term. A mid-table finish, or anything above a relegation scrap, is surely going to be the target. We have a core group of dependable, professional players, a first class manager (at the time of writing) and a strong fanbase that has been galvanised by the thrill of the chase this season, myself included.
The aim for next season has to be security; to make sure that we avoid a bounce factor that could send the club hurtling back to the dark days of Second Division football.
Football fans are notoriously short-sighted. And, miracles aside, promotion next season is not on the cards.
But the following campaign, or the one that after that, who knows?
When he joined Raith in November 2006, McGlynn had a five-year plan to get the club from the third tier of Scottish football back to the first. He’s worked wonders, but perhaps it’s time to draw up the next five-year plan.
Ronnie Coyle RIP
A few weeks ago I wrote about the Ronnie Coyle benefit match at Stark’s Park (see below), which was a genuinely great occasion to be in the stand for.
Although he didn’t kick a ball, Coyle seemed energetic and upbeat, joining the players on the pitch with his family and waving to fans after the trophy presentation.
So I, like Raith Rovers fans everywhere, was shocked and extremely saddened to hear about his death a week ago, at the age of just 46.
Even more than his involvement in some of Rovers’ most celebrated matches (and I won’t mention what happened in Munich), I believe it was Ronnie Coyle’s warm, humble, self-effacing outlook that so endeared him to fans and players alike.
The Raith Rovers website has posted this tribute to Coyle, which features an interview filmed on his big day just three weeks ago, in which he reaffirms his love of the club and gratitude for all the support.
There’s been a lot of hype about the crucial Fife derby this Saturday, which could effectively decide the destination of the First Division title.
Like every other Raith fan, I’ve been letting myself get a bit carried away with the talk of sell-out crowds, local rivalries and promotion prospects.
But at full-time, no matter the result, I’m going to try to take a moment to remember that it’s just a game.
Football’s not more important than life and death, despite the saying.
