Seems that every time I post something new the phrase “It’s been a while since my last post but….” is a bit more scuffed and worn than the last time I abused it. So I’m giving it a day off this time.
The following is inspired by two of the bedrocks of my existence in this life, Edinburgh and music. It came into being during the course of last Friday (13/04/18) when the city was wrapped in the kind of dull mist that rolls off the North Sea sometimes that feels like a cloud just crash landed. The other side of the Forth that is Fife, normally visible from The Bridges was removed from our awareness, and the fairy tale castle was reduced to barely an outline. While Arthur’s Seat the granite hill that overshadows all had a day to itself away from prying eyes.
I’d been sat at the desk half the morning with half a mind on how such a day deserved a few words to preserve it but no ideas to tell me how to begin. Then the weeks two earworms, the opening to Suzanne Vega’s “Cracking,” “It’s a onetime thing, it just happens, a lot, walk with me, and we will see, what we have got,” and the opening to Tanita Tikaram’s “Good tradition,” slightly mis-remembered as “It’s a good tradition of love and hate staying by the fireside” tumbled over into one of this life’s great loves.
Nanci Griffith. Someone I’ve loved a little bit more with each album acquired provided a solution with what was feeling like “It” was becoming the word of the day.
“It’s a hard life wherever you go,” did just the trick. The rest, now, is history. Hopefully the liberty taken with the weather based pun in the title won’t dent it’s reputation any….
For anyone not familiar with the word, see the link below for “Haar” explained with thanks to Wikipeadia:
268. Edinburgh mornings 15: It’s a haar life. (13 Apr. 18).
It’s a haar life, wherever you go,
On this Edinburgh mystery morning,
Where 10 steps from your door,
Could leave you lost,
And slowly drowning as your walking,
If you’ve no sense of direction,
Where every fed up half hidden building,
Can’t wait for the sun to come out,
To reach out strong warm hands,
That will gently wring out,
A dripping sponge of a day,
Finally, giving everything a proper start,
These always feel like sadly wasted days,
Or one’s that’ve only been half made,
Cold grey smudges on the calendar,
Proving we are but passengers,
Travelling to and fro damply,
Through our misty granite Lothian limbo.