Nabokov

In Montreal we found a shop "overflowing with paper ephemera and found treasures" and bought a few yellowed paperbacks. In retrospect the blend of literary classics and out-and-out pulp may have been less random than it appeared but I was pleased to find a copy of Nabokov's autobiography, Speak, Memory. A 1967 edition, it has had at least two owners before me, "Alison Smith" (in pencil) and "Evelyn (1976)". Although aged, slightly musty, it is otherwise in good condition and shows few signs of its previous owners. In the whole book just a single sentence has been underlined, in pencil: "Sitting as stiffly as if he were stuffed, he was driven in our car to the university, remained there till dusk, came back in a sleigh, in a heap, in a snowstorm, and in silent despair went up to his room."

Mushrooms, mist, Montreal

We spent two very enjoyable weeks, last of summer, in Montreal. We were on holiday but our daughter will study there this coming year so some time was spent viewing apartments with her, helping with paperwork, etc. We arrived home last Sunday, dazed and disoriented from a sleepless overnight flight and jet lag.

By afternoon our bodies were aching for some unknown combination of fuel and analgesic. I walked down to the supermarket and bought the largest Swiss roll I could find, then headed home through Cathcart cemetery; not the shortest route but a lovely diversion, especially on this balmy summer afternoon (still about 10°C cooler than Montreal!). Often there are others - dog walkers, kids swigging cheap illicit booze, ordinary people out for a wee walk in ones or twos - but on this occasion I met nobody. I wondered how often a man carrying only a Swiss roll is to be found on his own in a cemetery.

Set among the leafy suburbs, a couple of hundred feet above the level of Glasgow city centre, Cathcart cemetery really does feel like a green hill far away, an idyllic spot in which to rot once animation has ceased. I enjoy the glimpses of the city through leafy rows of stones. Often the stones themselves and their stories catch my eye. On this particular afternoon I noticed the grave of someone killed in the Castlecary railway accident of 1937. The stone noted family members subsequently interred, the latest having found his way to Toronto before passing away in the 1970s.

I passed through the cemetery into Linn Park by a shady path among trees. In a dappled spot I came on these eye-catching mushrooms on a tree stump. It struck me that summer had ended while we were away and that we were entering the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

Autumnal mists had caught my eye as we banked above the Campsies and made our final descent towards Glasgow, fine layers of cotton wool blanketing the fields around Lennoxtown, Torrance, Kilsyth. It was not yet 8.00 AM Glasgow time; few people not suffering from jet lag were around to relish this soft, misty, morning.