5.2.2012 Dead Pigeons as loft insulation (Millport, Isle of Cumbrae, Scotland)

Dead Pigeons as loft insulation

On TV they make it look so easy – fun even.  Teams of dungaree-clad, muscle rippling tradesmen stride up the path and in half an hour (including advertising breaks) the house is transformed from a rot infested, dank, old fashioned three bed semi into a sleek minimalist pad with double height ceilings, walls of glass, glittering recessed lighting, pristine white ceilings and calm, suave owners.    The before and after shots look as if someone has just pressed a button and hey presto, transformation.

So why is it that our attempt to refurbish our pretty Victorian cottage has already taken us a month and so far we appear only to have succeeded in creating dusty chaos throughout.  We started by inviting our local timber specialist, Angus, to squirm down a minute hatch under the floor, where he found no rot but offcuts of timber that the original builders left lying about in 1897.  No point submitting a complaint however.  As we say here, ‘The man who did that has’nae got a headache noo’.    

Angus then wriggled himself up the tiny aperture into our tiny loft.  There he encountered the comfortable abode of numerous generations of pigeons, whose nests, feathers, unhatched eggs and even three and a half desiccated corpses were providing a somewhat unwholesome layer of insulation above the bedrooms.  A whole new meaning to the phrase 'pigeon loft'.  So Bill, masked like Darth Vader, ascended the ladder, and, not being as slim as Angus, coaxed his ample form through the limited space, clutching a bucket and rubber gloves, and anticipating that he would be up there till he lost enough weight to get back down again.  Several hours and eight bulging black sacks later, the loft was clean.  So now we are insulating it with massive thick brown cushions of fibre glass.  These were purchased at an unbelievably low price owing to the generosity of the government, which is anxious to save money by reducing the number of elderly couples that need to be thawed out courtesy of the National Health Service.

So now half the loft is insulated, and I am getting used to the ladder in the bathroom, the black polythene which is carpeting the kids’ bedroom, the mattress propped against my wardrobe such that I have to grope for my clothes and be prepared to wear whatever I pull out, sight unseen.  Then there’s the cupboard in the hall where the chair should be, and that same chair temporarily re-homed in front of the TV making viewing just a little tricky.  And the spare bed, empty of bedding and upended precariously.  And of course the dust, fine and clinging, covering everything with a light, greyish powder.   

And the fact that you can’t find anything.   The stapler is as likely to be in the vegetable rack as on the desk; that red screwdriver that was definitely on the bookcase in the hall yesterday is in fact in the sock drawer, and what on earth is that scarf doing in the coal bucket??

And this is only month one – insulation.  We still have to put up the special wallpaper, do the plaster repairs, the painting, re-carpeting, re-curtaining, installation of central heating, total repaint of the outside, digging out the garden, repairing the woodwork on the dormer.  That’s assuming I haven’t forgotten anything.  Makes me exhausted just to think of it.   Why can’t that team of dungaree-clad, muscle rippling tradesmen stride up my path I’d like to know.  But I have just noticed that my own personal dungaree-clad muscle rippling man is no longer snoozing peacefully by the fire.  A distant rumbling and bumping indicates that he is roosting in the loft again.  Maybe pigeon comforts have something to commend them after all.

5.1.2012 The Winds of Time (Millport)

There are winds and there are winds.  Some are gentle, soft, brushing your cheek and ruffling your hair like affectionate hands.  Some are brisk, fresh, making your face tingle and ruffling the sea into diamonds.  And some are roaring ferocity, rumbling in the chimney like a monster trapped, making the curtains tremble in terror, hurling rain like bullets against the glass.  They tear down aged grey trees, swathed in soft moss, and leave them, branches twitching, to die on the wet grass.  They torment the ashen faced sea into a fury and then smash it against the wet rocks into ragged, sharpened shards.  

And they rip up the spindly heights of pylons and hurl them onto the forests below, and so condemn us to the silence and the darkness.

So here we sit, faces orange in reflected firelight, the flickering shadows like children’s drawings on the walls, little oil lamps glowing on the mantelpiece.   Dependent on battery, candle, paraffin and coal, we are refugees to a bygone era.

It was yesterday morning, after a night when the gale hammered on the roof like a giant possessed, that I reached out for the light switch and nothing happened.  That was 40 hours ago, but still I reach out to the light switches and wonder why nothing happens.  I think I’ll find out when the power will return by just turning on the TV...... The man from the power company even advises (by 'phone - amazingly still functional) that they’ll keep us informed on the internet – of course, why didn’t I think of that.  Just turn on the router – oh ah.  He asks for my account number.  I visualise trying to search through the filing system by the light of a guttering candle.  I decide it can’t be done and he is a bit disappointed.  He’s sympathetic but he’s also in Portsmouth, about 500 miles south.

This morning at the town grocers, a generator greeted me with its rumbling hum as it sat on the pavement.  That and a lantern illuminated the shop while we queued at the tills, which of course were not functional, and our purchases were laboriously calculated on scraps of paper.  Tonight the pubs were open, lit by the glow of candlelight, and no doubt providing a bit of welcome warmth, internal as well as external, for their besieged customers.

This evening at home, pork chops and onions cooked over the coal fire in the living room, and eaten by candlelight, was our cordon bleu meal for the day.  Meanwhile, our freezer, full of future meals, thaws slowly and silently in the kitchen.

But heating by portable gas, or being cold, lighting by tottering candlesticks or stumbling in the dark - this is the stuff of which accidents are made, especially for the town’s population of numerous elderly people.  Last night we watched as the helicopter’s lights grew larger and brighter, at last enabling us to make out its grasshopper outline as it bounced onto the dark wet turf of the football pitch, to take an injured islander to a mainland hospital.  But at least our little island hospital does still have power – it glitters on the hill behind our house, shining alone against the blackness, its generator glad of a chance to show what it can do.

And yet there are unexpected pleasures in this involuntary step back in time.  There are so many things you can’t do – hoover the carpets, do the laundry, wash the dishes, waste time and money on ebay, get the gossip on Facebook, watch meaningless TV.  

So I settle down to crochet a bedspread for my granddaughter Molly’s teddy bear.  Bill starts a crossword.  Time even to write this blog.  Simple pleasure we wouldn’t have made time for if we had had electricity.  It makes you think..... 

Right, I’ll just upload this blog now.  Uh oh.......