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The last two months I have been undertaking a residency at Cove Park in Scotland. It really is the most idyllic location to work. Every morning I wake up to a view of the tranquil waters of Loch Long, and then across the peninsula I can see the spectacular hills and bens at the beginning of the highlands. It has been a wonderful summer in Scotland and I don't think I have ever walked so much in my life, both here at Cove, and travelling with my partner Wayne across the country. As an Australian I am astounded by the dramatic changes in landscape and vista over what seem such short distances. It being summer has meant that it gets dark very late and the dawn comes very early. One of the most treasured moments of this time is walking home after a dinner with friends, along the Barbour Road, which shoots straight across the ridge of the peninsula. Though close to midnight, everything was visible in a soft blue light: I saw hues and shades that I had never seen before.
It is not only the nature and the landscape here that makes me feel so fortunate. The residencies at 
Cove Park are not only for writers. I have been learning so much from the residents here, seeing how a filmmaker or a textile craftsperson, for example, approaches their work; it allows me to reflect on my own practice as a writer. Here's a link to Cove Park and if you click on "Residencies" it will give information on the artists here at the moment.
Last night Adam cooked a great vegetable curry and Deirdre made a "pashalistic" rhubarb cake. (Deirdre is turning forty-five in September and has vowed to bake forty-five cakes before the great day arrives. She has been very taken with the Aussie slang "to pash" i.e. to snog or to make-out, and her cake was definitely "snoggable". You can follow her culinary adventures on 45 Cakes on Facebook.
We had the World Cup final on during dinner, and though my heart was with Holland, who I thought played the most elegant game of the series, I can live with Spain winning. They, like Holland, played a good game throughout the contest. I have been fascinated by the soul-searching in the English and the French press occasioned by the dismal performances of their respective national teams. It is as if the age of Bling that culminated in the economic crisis of the last two years is being held accountable for the petulant and selfish performances of both teams. (The Brazilian team, I think, can also be characterised in such terms and I'm glad they didn't get anywhere near the finals. Someone really needs to whisper into Renaldo's ear that he should just bloody keep his shirt on for a while. Either that or he has to make up his mind whether he is a soccer player or a gay porn star). The most disturbing aspect of the English and of the French performances in the World Cup wasn't that they didn't win but they were so appalling to their fans. It was this disconnection from the reality of most people's everyday life and experiences that brought home how greedy and egotistical the players have become.
There has been some defence of the French team, an argument that some of the vitriol directed at them arises from an undercurrent of racism as many of the players are children of immigrant African or Caribbean families. I have some sympathy with this argument, given the truth of continuing colonialist and xenophobic attitudes towards immigrants in Europe but nothing excuses the dishonourable performance of the French players on and off the field this year. If this is the end of the Age of Bling, bring it on I say.
The sun is out, a yacht is gliding across the glassy waters of Loch Long, and I can make out every house and dwelling in Ardentinny, the village on the other side of the peninsula. The coffee is brewed and the lovely postman with the thick Glaswegian accent and the anarchist tattoos on his arms has just dropped off the mail. It is time to begin work.
