The part of the site about the unsung heroes in my life, my parents - June & Ronnie. I have a vast archive of photos, writing, letters, personal memories that I will transfer here bit-by-bit. In the meantime, you can read writing produced by my mum in her late fifties while she studied for an English Higher and was a member of the Dalry Road ALP; read an article she had published (unknowingly) about growing up in the High Street; read my mum and dad's holiday diary from their trip to Bulgaria in 1994; and share a few memories from my childhood. To read more about June Hird, click the link above to the review of 'Dear Laura: Letters From a Mother to Her Daugher' on the new review

OLD TOWN STREETS
by June Hird

Whenever I feel nostalgia for my happy childhood days, I only need to take a stroll from Edinburgh Castle to St. Giles' Cathedral. Not only do memories come flooding back, but I also feel a sense of communion with the famous and infamous historical characters who once walked in the paths I am treading.

I was born in my grandmother's house in the Lawnmarket. I can remember, as a child, carefully running down the staircase from her house, avoiding the narrow parts of the steps, which tapered into the spiral staircase. I had been told that spiral staircases had been constructed to facilitate fencing duels, enabling the people concerned to dodge their opponent.

The ghosts of the past were gran's immediate neighbours. Brodie's Close, next door, had been the home of the notorious Deacon Brodie (of Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde fame.) My gran told me that during some reconstruction work, she had seen workmen uncover a secret staircase which Deacon Brodie had used during his nocturnal misdeeds. Robert Burns had stayed in the house opposite gran's during one of his visits to Edinburgh. In the Upper Bow, Major Weir, the Edinburgh warlock, and his sister Grizel, were reputed to have lived and tales of his ghost being seen riding his stallion over Edinburgh castle used to give me many a sleepless night.

At Riddle's Court, there is a beautiful Italian balcony, where I used to stand and dream that I was Juliet, waiting to hear Romeo whisper "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?"

Now grandmother's window - it was an experience to behold. One could watch soldiers, pipers and military bands marching to and from the Castle, during the royal residence at Holyrood Palace.

I also used to watch the quaintly dressed fishwife with her creel, sitting outside Deacon Brodie's Tavern, selling mussels and buckies. The buckie is a small curly shellfish, sold in its shell, and extracted with a pin. The mussels were served on a saucer, salt and vinegar added to taste and delicately eaten in the street with the aid of a teaspoon.

From his pitch opposite, near the Sheriff Courthouse, I would watch and listen to the newsvendor's strange call "Spatchet News." French? One may well ask, as in the Royal Mile call of yesteryear, "Gardyloo." No, he was selling the Evening News and Evening Dispatch.

Saturday was a special day. Gran gave me my Saturday penny. I had the difficult decision to make whether to spend it in Granny Meikle's shop, near Riddle's Court. Her home-made treacle doddles were delicious and kept me chewing for ages. Or alternatively, I could enter the inner sanctum of Alex Ferguson Ltd, Confectioners, at the junction of George IV Bridge, Lawnmarket. Oh, those lavish fitted tartan carpets and the charming assistants also dressed in tartan.

The sign outside proudly stated "By Royal Appointment." I wondered nervously at the door, if royalty enjoyed their Edinburgh Rock as much as I did. "A pennyworth of broken rock, please," was my usual shy, order, hoping they would include a bit of ginger rock in the deftly twisted paper poke.

A few doors away in George IV Bridge was the site of "The Old City Buffet." A memorial seat to the owners, Mr and Mrs William Wilson who were a delightful couple, is now the only reminder.

They would allow children to join their parents in the small lounge bar. Sometimes on a Saturday my dad would say, "Don't tell mum," and he would take me to the "Buffet", order a pint for himself and delicious pie with gravy and fizzy lemonade for me.

It was a favourite haunt of members of the court and Press too. I loved the atmosphere and secrecy of it all.

My little tour ends at St Giles' Cathedral, so much a part of my past. Within its ancient portals, my parents were married, I was baptised and married and our daughter was baptised.

Our wedding service was conducted by the Rev Harry Whitley. This pleasant, compassionate and controversial man, with his warm smile and twinkling eyes, was like a bright spring sunshine, within the sombre, grey cathedral walls. I shall always treasure the memory of this wonderful man, with his delightful family.

Some of the landmarks have changed but enough remains to provide me with a happy walk in the past.

This article was originally published in 'Edinburgh Then' (Archive Publications 1989). Mum didn't realise her article was in it until she discovered the book in Balgreen Library. Mercenary swines!

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THE BEST TIME OF DAY
by June Hird

In all our years together the only subject about which you and I disagreed was the best time of the day. As I snuggled into your arms at night I would say �evening�, knowing that you and I were together, safe and warm until morning.

As I drowsily awoke, the delicious aroma of freshly-made coffee and hot buttered toast teased my taste-buds. Your smiling newly-shaved face materialising to my half-closed eye-lids. A kiss and a whiff of your aftershave and �wakey wake, a new day awaits us�.

Even on holiday after dancing until the wee small hours you would still be up at day-break eager to seek pastures new.

That last morning I made the toast and coffee for you. You were eating breakfast as I made some coffee for myself. When I came to join you, you had gone, half of the warm coffee still in the cup.

He will not come back, they said but I could not believe them. Your electric razor still plugged in. Your smart new clothes still hanging in place.

You could not leave like that, so many plans still unfulfilled. I only know that without you there is no best time of day.

(Photo above - my dad, Ronnie Hird)

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NAN - 89 YEARS YOUNG
by June Hird

Nan will be eighty-nine years old in May. Old, did I say? Never. Although Nan boasts to being a year older than the present century and having lived during the reign of six monarchs, I always think of her as eighty-nine years young. I have always been amazed at Nan�s quick, agile brain, amazing memory and beautiful singing voice. Apart from that, her pride in her appearance, hair always perfect, an eye for fashion. Those qualities, combined with a compassionate heart and an infectious sense of humour make her a very special person. She was prompter in a production of �A Midsummer Night�s Dream� in which I played Helena. When the twenty year old Puck fell ill at the last minute, Nan, in her mid-sixties, volunteered to play the part � somersaults, cartwheels and all. The show was a brilliant success, Puck being given very special mention.

Nan�s grit probably stemmed from her childhood. The eldest and only daughter in a family of six. She was a brilliant scholar, with hopes of a teaching career when her beloved Dad was enlisted for the First World War in 1914. Poor Dad. Tom was not give the chance to be a hero. Whilst returning to the front after compassionate leave after his youngest son died of tuberculosis, he opened the train compartment window and accidentally fell onto the path of an oncoming express train.

Mother bereft and four remaining little brothers, Nan took control, left school and career behind and started work as a shop assistant to support them all at fifteen. At twenty, things were still very tight financially. Two more little brothers had died of TB. She needed a lot of money in a hurry and set off, steerage, to America. Within a year she was personal lady�s maid to the daughter of a millionaire. Dollars galore were sent home. Mum was solvent at last. Every two years, Nan had to return home or become a nationalised American subject which she did not wish. She returned home three time in all, bearing the millionaire�s �cast-offs�. Mum now had pure silk undies and fox furs.

On the third visit home, she met Colin, married him and settled down in her hometown of Edinburgh. Still looking after beloved Mum and seeing the two remaining brothers happily married, she also continued a full-time job and was the mainstay of all the charity work for the Catholic Church of which she was a devout member.

Alas, Colin, Nan�s mum, her brothers and all her generation are dead. She lives in sheltered housing, in an immaculate little flat. Crippled by arthritis, sight almost gone. So frail and birdlike, when she ventures to her nearby chapel for mass or to burn candles, she is quite often blown over by a sudden Edinburgh South East wind.

However, the valiant spirit is still there. When we visit we must be prepared to stay for ages to hear her wonderful tales. When we have problems, she always says, �Never mind, Nannie will light a candle,� and we fell everything will be fine. I hope Nannie (my pet name for her) will reach her century, for the world would be a dull place without her inspiration.

(Photo above - dad, mum and Nannie on Nannie's 90th birthday)

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CEUD MILE FAILTE
by June Hird

She was sitting alone with her memories � a luxury that no-one could take away from her. They were all she had left but she considered herself rich that they were all so happy. Happy memories are like rainbows, they glisten and glow.

Tonight she smiled as she remembered the day Margaret and Jack returned from Inverness with a little present for her darling husband and herself. It was a little wall plate with the greeting �ceud mile failte�. �That means a hundred thousand welcomes in Gaelic,� said Margaret. �You must hang it inside at the door to welcome people.�

She was right. The house was always full of visitors from all over the worlds and friends always seemed to drop in.

Margaret and Jack, her husband and she were such great friends. They were a quartet whose every outing was an adventure.

She remembered sadly the day a gust of wind blew the ceud mile failte plate to a hundred thousand pieces.

Now her husband, Margaret and Jack are gone. She is all that is left of the quartet. She firmly believes that they are waiting with a hundred thousand welcomes for her in Heaven.

In the meantime she is going to summon on her feeble strength to visit Inverness to try and find a replacement ceud mile failte plate in the hope that when a hundred thousand welcomes beckon again the people who used to enjoy their hospitality may return once more.

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PETER'S GARDEN
by June Hird

We called him Peter, although his name was really Jim. He was already seventy years old when we first met and arthritis and Parkinsons Disease had already taken their toll on his frail body. �A geriatric gent,� he called himself but we soon renamed him Peter for Peter Pan, mainly because he had a heart and soul that never grew up. He also had twinkling, boyish eyes and a giggle which would brighten the darkest day.

I remember that summer, when Ronnie, Laura and I visited Peter in Kent and encountered his garden for the first time, his �Never, Never Land.� A little river rippled through the garden turning a miniature mill wheel. Little garden gnomes, a frog, scattered the lawn. The scent of the honeysuckle and lavender plus the hum of the bees made the setting idyllic for me. When the sun was too hot I would sit in the old summerhouse and play Glen Millar records on a wind-up gramophone. �Moonlight Serenade� or �String of Pearls� in the Millar sound was a cue for Peter to serve his ice cold, homemade lemonade.

Peter�s constant companion was Jamie the cat, half human, half wildcat. �He guards the fairies at the bottom of my garden,� Peter used to say.

Peter is now in an old folks� home in Cambridge. Jamie is dead and buried in the garden beside the fairies. The house and garden have been sold. When I write to Peter now he always tells me � We can return to the garden by taking the second star from the right and straight on till morning.� Perhaps he is right.

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WHO THE DEVIL?
by June Hird

It was the year 2000 and Old Nick was redundant. He was having great difficulty in coming to terms with the fact that he was an utter failure as a devil. Since the beginning of creation, when as the dashing wicked Lucifer he had been cast out of Heaven, he had been causing havoc in the world. However, in the last couple of years of the 20th century, people had changed � loving their neighbours and all that rubbish. No wars, no hunger, no poverty, work for all, plenty of leisure. Because everyone was so contented there was no need for drug addiction, alcoholism, divorce, murder, rape, stealing� Prisons and psychiatric hospitals had been converted into recreation hotels (all free of charge.)

It was Hell for Nick to witness the disintegration of the Society he had devoted his life to creating.

He was so sad, he slept for days on end because there seemed no purpose for him waking. When he did awake, ouch � these migraines. He knew they were caused by his horns starting to grow inwards and the sharp ends pressing on his brain. He was sad too when he looked in the mirror at the tail, which had once been his pride and joy. Long and fleshy, it had been, with a glossy black brush of hair at the end. Now it was an apology. Short and fluffy like a rabbit�s. His skin was now pink, the only gold remaining on his flesh was under his left shoulder, about the size of a ducat.

The only time he felt vaguely happy was when he was reminiscing. He would stoke the fire (so much like his old home), have his favourite supper of toasted bread, covered with brimstone and treacle and watch his past life flickering in the flames, like an old movie projector.

From the very first, life had been fun on earth. He smiled when he remembered the pranks in the Garden of Eden with that first pair, Adam and Eve. He really looked good in that serpent skin. It was his first job as a devil. Satan, they called him then. The success of that job really went to his head.

Such had been his fame that many books had been written about it. In fact, in the best seller of all, �The Bible� he was mentioned in every chapter. Composers owed him a lot. �Faust� and �Don Giovanni� would have been hopeless without Mephistopheles (another alias.) Poets and authors � how his evil had inspired them all.

His influence had helped the population explosion, pestilence, disaster and wars. He had done a service for humanity. He was even planning his finest piece of service � total annihilation of the human race in an atomic war. He wanted to do this before he retired. Now there was no chance.

A new career was needed. �Situations Vacant�, although there were thousands of them, had no vacancies for experienced devils. Then one morning he noticed a vacancy � male lead in Phantom of the Opera, now in it�s 15th year. Michael Crawford was retiring. This was it. He had a good baritone voice (his years joining in his black masses had given him a lot of practice.)

The day before the audition he was looking quite good � a coat of gold paint on his skin, hair restorer on, the tail, hired horns and black cloak. He quite looked like his former self.

As he walked down the street, one could see distinctly the motion of his rosy wings of lungs.

He joined the queue of young hopefuls. He was not surprised when the other competitors vanished quickly. This used to happen to him often in the past.

His name was called. Lucifer Satanicus � stage name of course. There was no competition. He was a natural � good voice, natural talent for dramatic situations. They would save a fortune on make-up. He would not need it.

Nick (sorry, Lucifer) broke all former box office records. One weekend he entered a private hospital to have his tail removed surgically. It kept tripping up the rest of the cast, was a bit ungainly in the love duets and after all, he was no longer needed it. He was back on stage, singing and acting on the Monday � a true professional. He had never been happy in the past million or so years.

The last I heard he was �going steady� with the leading lady, in spite of the age difference. He is such a reformed character, someone told me he hopes that one day they might let him back in Heaven. I am afraid I do not remember who the devil told me.

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RON AND JUNE'S HAPPY, HAPPY MEMORIES OF BULGARIA
by June Hird

Day 1 � Saturday 7 May 1994

At 6.30am this morning, after 3 hours sleep, disturbed by thoughts, �the house could be burgled, my plants will die, there will be a major crisis at home,� dozing saying, �why Bulgaria?� like everyone else (except Mrs Wilson), Ian collected us for the airport. Trouble free, no hold-ups/buzzers going off at security. At last on Balkan plane. One hour hold up!!!

At last airborne � captain suggests an aperitif - �1. Why not? Do not drink spirits normally � a whisky? Sorry, whisky finished. Someone offers to sell them a bottle � no response. OK, vodka will do. Lovely sleepy feeling after vodka. Lunch and glass of wine. Not very hungry. Glass of wine very welcome. Now to relax and read. Vision a bit distorted. Must be the altitude. A little sleep � Another drink?? Very thirsty. Vodka has run out. Gin and tonic? Soft drinks have run out � why not? Now have that pre-med feeling you get before surgery. In what seemed like 5 minutes, the pilot was calling, �Varna Airport approaching, fasten your safety belts. Temperature 70 degrees. Have a good holiday.� Deo Gratzia luggage intact. Bus and courier waiting. �Why Bulgaria?� The Hirds have arrived.

The golden sands were in evidence on the journey from Varna Airport. I was enthralled by the beauty and abundance of trees and bushes � poplars, pines, silver birch, sycamore and horse chestnuts covered in their springtime candles, cherry blossom, may blossom, laburnum, lilac, I could go on forever. The ground thinly covered with irises, pansies and forget-me-nots, all growing like weeds.

The hotel Shipska was a custom made block as are most of the hotels and houses. The former buildings of a more architecturally creative period still lie abandoned or ruined. However, our room was large, bright, comfortable and clinically clean. Every comfort was there, including 24 hour full blast central heating. Windows and doors have to be left open to cool us down but a dear little geranium plant on the balcony outside our room was happy to have a cool drink.

A good meal, a little walk and a sound sleep.

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Day 2 � Sunday 8 May 1994

Our first morning in our new land for 2 weeks, slept like tops. Birds are singing. Black Sea gently lapping nearby. A little jay comes to the balcony and says �hello�. Later a pigeon. Time to get up. Must acquire some Bulgarian money. Access cards not welcome. Travellers� cheques not very welcome either � 6% to cash. Bank of England notes � you can buy Bulgarian with them or dollars. Black marketers stop you in the street to buy them from you constantly. I wish we had known.

Bulgarian money lady does not come until midday on Sundays. A bag full of money and cannot buy a packet of polo mints or phone home. Ah, breakfast at least. No. No breakfast without green visa � the one we received last night. Back to the room. Green visa under pile of towels.

Ah, breakfast at last. Money lady late; courier late. Money lady exchanged �100 travellers� cheques for Bulgarian �funny money� - �94. Hallelujah, our tummies full, our pockets happy. Now the courier, re tours.

�How about a tour to Budapest?�

�Oh, you don�t want to go there.�

�How about Sophia and Rula Monastery??�

�Oh, you don�t want to go there.�

�How about the opera? I believe it is Carmen?�

�Oh, you would not like it. It is in Bulgarian.�

I protest. �Bizet was French. I have already seen it performed twice in Italian and once in English. Where music is concerned, it does not matter.�

He ignores me to attend to a poor little man whose case went missing on the flight and has not changed his underwear for 2 days. I felt ashamed. Compared with that, who needs Carmen?

He said we would like a tour to Nessebar and the sunny beach and a sail on the Danube (I did not tell him I had sailed on the Strauss� Danube when it once was blue.) We would also like a Russian nightclub with folkdancing.

�Not Bulgarian?�

�No, Russian.�

Totally brainwashed, we booked and paid Stefan for where HE said we should go. I think he gets a commission from the Communist party.

Managed to phone Morag, who thought we had been sent to Siberia by mistake � the christening had gone fine. I was glad she did not say, �why Bulgaria?� again.

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Day 3 � Monday 9 May 1994

We are feeling more settled. Sleeping for hours and hours, eating well, relaxed. No shopping, no cooking. When we return from breakfast, our room is clinically clean � even though it was just a wee bit untidy. Had our first trip on our own by local bus to Varna. Shopped for things we needed � fresh oranges; fruit juice; some savoury biscuits; tissues.

Varna is a beautiful city, although again, a bit run down. There is a lovely cathedral, art gallery and we did our shopping in the open-air street market, sheltered by chestnut trees. It reminded me so much of our beloved formed Yugoslavia in so many ways.

We discovered that the medical centre at the neighbouring Ambassador Hotel have a course of treatment called �Gerican� for Ronnie�s incurable condition � arteriosclerosis. We made enquiries there today. The senior physician will see him Wednesday and if accepted, will commence treatment immediately. Gerican muscle injections, ginseng ampules, royal jelly, massive doses of vitamins and other things. The course lasts 10 days and they would provide us with medication for the next 9 months. Is this the reason we came to Bulgaria? The course will be expensive. It could be some gimmick. Why in the UK do doctors say nothing can be done except half an aspirin daily. But if we returned home without trying, we would regret it for the rest of our lives. If it works � oh God, how grateful and happy we would be. I�d never complain or moan again.

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Day 4 � Tuesday 4 September 1994

Set off for Nessebar on what promised to be a bright sunny day. Stefan was right. It proved to be a day we shall remember all of our lives. I struck up an instant friendship with our lady courier, Cosy.

�You are Scottish?� she said. �I know Edinburgh well. Your beautiful country has been oppressed through the centuries like my beautiful country.�

The Scots and Bulgarians are so alike. They have the same sense of humour and pride in our heritage. Never let anyone say your have an English passport. Say, �No British. I have no connections with England. I am a Scot.�

As the others slept, I hungrily sought answers to so many questions. After 4 years they are slowly trying to rebuild a life for their country after being totally dominated by the Communist Party. Their vineyards were burned to the ground, so there were no Bulgarian wines until recently. The beautiful houses were replaced by soulless multi-storey flats. Large monuments to Communism were built. Children�s education changed. Family numbers were restricted. The average lifespan was between 60-65 years. The people are finding it hard to live without fear and restriction and the country�s economy is poor.

I asked her about art, music and poetry. She told me, yes, the artists have returned. Many poets were detained or shot for being subversive. Music is returning to a land which had a rich culture of traditional folk music.

We had lunch at Nessebar with the usual greeting of bread, salt and pepper, and apricot brandy, salad, rich soup, some sort of goulash and veg and a delicious pastry with almonds and spices, jugs of chilled kiwi fruit juice and a constant supply of free wine. We were each given a bottle of free wine to take home as a gift. Nessebar is a beautiful city (little city) but it has at least 6 ancient churches. We saw them all on this hot May afternoon. Cobbled streets and local artists galore. Could not help myself. Bought an oil painting to add to my memory collection. The lady artists and her husband shyly posed for a photograph. I told them it was not fair only paying �15 for it. In UK that would barely pay for the canvas and paints, not to mention frame and work but they were so happy we had bought it, they refused to take the �20 we offered and packed it beautifully for us.

We found a lovely gift shop. They are very rare in this country � as rare as useable toilets. Bought something for Morag and Ian. Oh my God, we are going to be in trouble. We were just on the borderline weight-wise coming here, with all the cardigans, sweaters, jackets, sensible shoes, mountains of books in case we were bored. 75% of the clothes are in a wardrobe unworn. The weather is so mild, we can wash our clothes at night and wear them the next day. When I write my diary in the evening on the balcony, Ronnie is already sleeping, snoring loudly. The bright star, which we call �Our Margaret, Jack and Nannie star,� is winking at me over the balcony. �We are with you little friends, enjoying your holiday.� �Good night little star.�

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Day 5 � Wednesday 11 May 1994

9am this morning, Ron and I attended the medical centre. After an extensive medical examination and the beautiful lady doctor acting as the interpreter to the senior physician and June acting as interpreter for Ronnie, they had a chat and agreed to accept him. �When� I asked. �Now� they said. A quick exchange of travellers� cheques for what seems like a massive amount of Leva. Accounts made out, medical programme made out. It has all happened so quickly. I have not had time to think. Ron is madly keen to start (glad he brought these 14 shirts - the nurses and doctors are pretty.) First injection of Gerican followed by large drink of royal jelly. �Tastes good,� he said, then a refreshing brew of ginseng tea, plus Gerican, tabs, massive doses of vitamins and extra iron. He must attend the clinic 2 to 3 times a day over the next 10 days, which puts paid to Istanbul and Sofia. We explain we are going all day to the Danube tomorrow. They say never mind, Ron can come here at 8am before we go for injections etc etc.

In a rather confused state, we spend the rest of the day on the beach, bathing our feet in the mineral spring and paddling in the Black Sea, collecting perfect shells for my �Secret Garden� back home. Our lawn, dandelions, lobelia, poor Clara and Meg II seem a long way away.

�Ah hello, special star. Yes, I must get to bed.� Ron has already been sleeping one hour. I must go to bed. Sounds of revelry coming from neighbouring hotels but we have a 7am call tomorrow. Clinic have agreed to see Ron at 8am till 8.30am, then the romantic Danube!!!

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Day 6 � Thursday 12 May 1994

Awoke 7am after a restless night of dreams of Dr Faustus and Portrait of Dorian Gray, who in seeking youth had sold their souls to the devil but were old men. But the doctor in the dream said, �It is sad. He is a young man but you have been guided here.�

Ron is already showered, dressed and awaiting my return from nocturnal wanderings to have breakfast and attend the Peter Pan clinic, then catch the 8.30 bus to the romantic Danube. Ron had to make it alone to the Peter Pan clinic. Wendy was feeling slightly geriatric.

Both on bus, lovely guide � male, named Ivan. Very ashamed of sleeping first 2 hours of tour. First stop for coffee, vile coffee, vile toilets � hole in the floor � male and female. My friend, Bette and I take to the forest. Luckily I had brought tissues and baby wipes in my massive case. We agreed if anyone approached we should sing the Indian Love Call from �Rose Marie.� �When I�m calling you ooh ooh ooh, ooh ooh ooh, from a Balkan loo ooh ooh ooh, ooh ooh ooh.� There were nettles but who cares. It is an adventure.

First stop a Balkan home � more bread, salt, pepper and wine and apricot brandy. They were lovely people. Lots of photos. Back on bus, Ivan asks if we have any questions but it would take forever to give the answers (hope I remember.) Next stop � 4 course lunch, apricot brandy and wine, then a ride on a donkey and cart. They gave the reins to lads on our excursion. We had lots of giggles about L Plates and MOT Tests. Joking apart, there are more donkeys and carts than cars in the part of Bulgaria we are visiting today.

Another long coach ride, and then THE ROMANTIC DANUBE � uggh! Not the Danube we remembered from Vienna but a stalwart little accordionist greeted us aboard with �Tales from the Vienna Woods,� �Blue Danube,� �Roses from the South.� Poor man. He deserved full marks for imagination, playing on a mucky river with cranes and derelict rusty boats on both sides. We gave him a good tip because he did play the accordion well (with vivid imagination.)

Next stop a fishing village. A cauldron of delicious fish soup bubbling on a fire and apricot brandy. We supped our soup and drank our brandy under the trees while a gifted lady violinist played so many beautiful melodies including the one which seems to crop up wherever we go � Robert Schumanns�s �Traumerei.� It will be our theme music for this holiday for �dreaming.� I sometimes think we are. Someone said it was raining but I realised we were sitting under willow trees and they were weeping into our soup and brandy.

Reluctantly back on bus, half an hour later a picnic dinner � 4 courses, apricot brandy, a bottle of wine each and a kiwi juice. Help, my size 14 will be an 18 soon and our poor livers!!! After that Balkan folk dancing and music and our choice of free photos taken during the day. Back to the coaching float. The two delightful girl assistant couriers asked Ronnie and I if we could help the entertainment going on the bus. They told funny stories, sang Bulgarian love songs. I have a vague recollection of starting everyone in �Auld Lang Syne� and singing �Loch Lomond� and �Annie Lawrie�. A yorkshireman sang, �9 green bottles.� At long last � 11.30pm � 15 hours and 350 miles. Tired and weary. A memorable day had ended. Flopped into bed.

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Day 7 � Friday 13 May 1994

Feeling really fragile today. Total abstinence. Strict diet. Walked in the glorious woods. Watched the Black Sea and inhaled the pure air. Phoned Morag and were deeply saddened to hear that John Smith � leader of the Labour Party had died. How sad. He was a fine man and an Edinburgh man. Passed the news on to all the Brits in the hotel. Whatever their political views, everyone was saddened.

Tried to phone Laura at several numbers to no avail. Early night. Good night little star.

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Day 8 � Saturday 14 May 1994

There have been so many tourists mugged and robbed. An average 1-3 a day between the Shipka and Ambassador Hotels. We have all been warned of Varna, the nearest city in particular. Ron and I decided to face the bandits and take the local bus. 60 Leva return for 2 � about 70p. Wanted to see inside the cathedral and buy some of the gorgeous oranges in the market. Every crook in the Balkans seemed to have descended for the weekend. Swarthy looking men trying to sell money, a few good Leva on top, counterfeit underneath. Approaching the cathedral, a gypsy woman was trying to sell us half price holy candles to burn. We declined and bought them inside. I am sure you can�t make full-price prayers with half-price candles. Felt a bit threatened by all the jostling and hassling in the market. A large whiskered man suddenly blocked my path and opened a flick knife. �Run� I called to Ronnie. We sought sanctuary in a nearby bar, which was empty. We ordered coffee and the barman bought a light snack for us at a nearby restaurant. Three men wandered in, looked at us, and walked out. I was carrying cans of coke in a long plastic bag which I intended to use as a weapon. Meal eaten and paid for, we ran as fast as we could to the Cathedral Square and the safety of the No 9 bus. The hotel had a food festival with folk dancing. They asked for volunteers. I looked up and there was Ron, Balkan fur hat, dancing away like mad. I had to volunteer also to make sure he was OK. Is the Peter Pan club doing him good? Said goodbye to Bette and Jack who are leaving early tomorrow.

Had dinner and a short walk, then a seat on the balcony to write, and bed. All these books that I brought and I can only manage half a page each night.

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Day 9 � Sunday 15 May 1994

Lots of new faces � pale and apprehensive, wanting to know how many Leva to the pound, wallets bulging with funny money. �What�s that funny fish dish?� �Is that thick stew any good?� �Can we have chips with it?� I thought of us a week ago.

Went along to Stefan�s �Welcome to Bulgaria� speech. Booked a tour to Balchik on Wednesday afternoon. With the clinic 7 days a week, twice daily, it rather binds us. As we were waiting, I talked to dozens of tourists, recommending the tours. The fun, excitement, scenery, value for money etc etc. Stegan�s English is poor. He came over after and said, �Thank you for the publicity. I am most grateful.� Met another couple from Lancashire. Jean and Jim sat down by the pool, arranged to meet them at the Shipka in the evening. Returned to the hotel for lunch (rather late). Asked if we could just have soup and bread.

�You are welcome. There is a Balkan wedding reception in the dining room.� We were delighted to sit at our little table and watch a totally different culture holding their wedding reception. Would love to have taken some photos but felt we would have been intruding, however, 3 of the little children guests posed for a photo. Had a siesta. Dressed for dinner. Phoned home and joined Jean and Jim for a very merry evening � chatting, joking and having a few drinks.

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Day 10 � Monday 16 May 1994

Sitting here in the early morning, the little birds who seem to invade our balcony (swifts I think) have been fluttering in and out for about half an hour. They don�t say much but the general impression is ��Wake up Ron and June. A new day has begun.� As I write, they fly over my head and pick at the eaves, looking down as if to say, �How is she taking it?� Jenny, the dried up geranium now has 3 clusters of beautiful flowers. Amazing what a little TLC will do. Later, as a result of the early rise, we set off for Varna � the forbidden city. I wanted to find one of the cheap opticians who provide splendid spectacles within the hour. Did not feel so threatened today. It was a weekday and we kept away from the market. Some parts of the city are quite beautiful. Pity about the reputation.

Found the optician, had an eye test, new lens, frames provided within the hour for �24 and those were good ones. Had some lunch. Bought Ron a tie and white socks and more oranges. Back on the bus for Ron�s 2pm appointment at the clinic. They seem to be quite pleased with him. The girls seem very fond of him and he seems to enjoy the little flirtation. �Ah, come to my clinic, Ronald Reagan.� Even at the hotel, the very beautiful head waitress who has a slight lisp and is called Nadya says, �You thit down Ronnie Reagan, let Nadya bring your thoup.� It must be true what they say about royal jelly and ginseng. It does my heart good to see him enjoy life again. It could be all the pretty girls or it could be the Peter Pan clinic. He certainly has regained his wonderful sense of direction. Turn me round twice and I�m lost but even in this strange country, he will say, �We turn left here, right at the top� and so on.

Had a shower tonight before setting off for the Troika Russian nighclub. A lovely cool shower and shampoo. Then the water suddenly became scalding hot. I was being scalded and couldn�t turn the taps off. The shower curtain collapsed. But for Ronnie�s quick action, the burns I received would have been much worse. I was really shocked and did not want to go. We complained to the management about the plumbing with the usual language problems. The coach left without us, so scalds, shock etc...

Arrived at Troika to the wonderful sound of Russian singing, ballet, folk and Cossack dancing of an excellent quality. I remembered so many of the songs (including the Song of the Volga Boatman) in Russian from my childhood when Joseph Stalin and Lenin were international heroes and we would go to take part in the �Friends of Russia Society� concerts. Oh dear, how the world has changed but they had a wealth of brilliant composers, writers, singers, dancers. I smiled when I remembered �The Cherry Orchard� with the subtitles which did not work. Where did all their fine ideals go wrong? Ivan, the courier at the Danube told me Bulgaria had never been so well off than under Communism. Free medical care, state pensions, encouragement to buy their own homes, 2% interest for 25 years. Now they are poor again and a Mafia-like element is running the country.

Oh well, it was a lovely concert even if it did stir all these thoughts in my brain.

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Day 11 - Tuesday 17 May 1994

Very, very quiet day. Scalds hurting a bit. Went down to the mineral spring on the beach and made a mud bath for my feet. It has helped the foot scalds but not the burns on the wrists and shoulders. Probably because they had already been sensitive with sunburn. Decided after dinner to write this and have a very early night as there is nothing much to report.

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Day 12 � Wednesday 18 May

Today has been such a strange and wonderful day. From 6am this morning, those friendly little birds have been swooping down on our balcony and peeking in our door saying, �get up, get up. Today is going to be a special day for you both.� I have discovered they are house martins, not swifts. When I finally awoke at 8am, Ronnie was already dressed and standing on the balcony chatting to them like a latter day St Francis. We take leave of our feathered friends and proceed to breakfast and the clinic � half an hour early. Frau doctor says to her other patients, �you must wait. I see this gentleman first.� She said she was so pleased with Ronnie. �He will dance and swim and love life again. You were meant to come here.�

At 2.30pm we met the coach for our last official tour to Balchik Palace and Gardens � the summer palace of Queen Marie of Romania between the 1st and 2nd World Wars. Later we were to visit Cape Kaliakra and then a late picnic dinner. I was delighted to discover that my friend, Cosy, was the courier. She makes history come alive and we chat while the others sleep. The gardens of the Palace were exotic. I have never seen so many species of cacti in all my life (although I do not have any affinity with cacti. I still had to admire them.) There were rose gardens and all exotic plants and flowers. I would have given an arm and a leg to bring a few cuttings back to Scotland but no June - they were growing in the land they love. There were Roman baths, a water mill, a marble throne in the garden for Queen Marie. Cosy told me she was a very eccentric lady (Queen Marie that is.) She had many lovers including some of the local fishermen. I mentioned the difficulty we had found in finding literature about Bulgaria. About Mrs Wilson�s gift of �A Rough Guide to Bulgaria.� And her book �My Cousin Clare,� about Claire Sheridan - Winston Churchill�s cousin � sculptress, great friend of the British officers at the Balchik Garrison. Oh Claire, I did not know of your existence until 2 months ago and you are still remembered in a country who have never heard of Burns, Barrie or Dickens.

Queen Marie had 2 sons who loved the same woman, Madame Lupescu. They had a duel. Queen Marie heard of this and stood between her sons at the duel and was wounded. She was rushed to a Swiss hospital for surgery but eventually died. Her eldest son, because of the scandal, did not become King Karl of Romania. Sorry, forgot to mention. Queen Marie was a grand daughter of Queen Victoria.

Now on our way to Cape Kaliakra. It is such a hot day. Temperatures of 38c have been reported � no air. Wild rugged cape. The sea is silver in the early evening sunshine. We walk along the path with excavations, ruined fortresses and ancient caves. Our poor feet. There is a monument at the cape to 40 beautiful local girls who were being forced to leave Bulgaria to join a Turkish harem. They all had long black hair. Rather than lose their virtue and leave their native land, they all braided their hair and linked it together. When the first one jumped, the others all joined her on the rocks and sea below.

It is 7.30pm. How hungry we are. We arrive at the picnic place for the usual brandy and bread at the door and two barrels of wine � one white, one red. We were each handed a jug and asked to help ourselves. Another banquet ensued with music and dancing � we become friends with 4 young folk from Newcastle, and during the course of the evening, the inseperable friends and dancing companion of a couple of our own age from Berlin � Manfred and Brunhilda. I asked, �Should it not be Seigfried and Brunhilda?� �Ah, you know Richard Wagner. You are our dear friends. Come to Berlin.� We declined that night. I still remembered the Christopher Isherwood account of pre-war Berlin. Perhaps it has changed. We took a rain check in the meantime and danced the night away. There was no stopping Ronnie. Russian, Bulgarian, Rock and Roll, quick-step, waltz. I caught up with him at �Save the Last Dance for Me.�

Such a jolly crowd returned on the coach, singing and joking. When we arrived at the Shipka for bed, I took my farewells of Cosy. �This is not goodbye, my friend. This is only the beginning. We shall meet again. You shall see.� What did she mean? I will think tomorrow.

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Day 13 � Thursday 19 May 1994

After breakfast and clinic, a trip on the bus to Varna for the the bargain spectacles, eye test, frames, lenses and leather case - �24 � available in the hour. Stefan wrote a notice for us in Bulgarian in case we were lost, saying �Please direct me to optician.� 1 Frenchman, 1 German and 1 Brit later, we found it. Had the test, then some lunch while we waited. Specs ready and a mad rush. �Good bye, good bye, beautiful city of crime and corruption.�

It was extremely hot and I could not cool down. Had a swim in the outdoor pool which was lovely then a cool shower in the open air. My feet are really puffy. Had a quiet afternoon and did a little packing. Ronnie starts his usual panicking. �Why do you buy souveniers? Why did you collect those shells? We are not taking that champagne or any drink home other than duty free.� Solved the problem of the champagne. Sat on our balcony under the stars with Jean and Jack and drank champagne from the tumblers. Jack popped the champagne cork. It seemed to fly over into the forest. We joked and sung, exchanged addresses and felt very sad that this was our penultimate evening. Tomorrow evening we would have no time to socialise. Packing to finish. Early bed for 3.50am call. I was sorry I had to bring this evening to an early close. My ankles were very puffy and my breathing not very good. I had been secretly taking extra diuretics to no avail. Hold on June. It is just the change of air and water. You will be fine when you return home.

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Day 14 � Friday 20 May 1994

Oh dawn chorus, forest rustlings and friendly house martins. You must have started 2 hours early. I could sleep all morning. I could not breath last night. Felt I was suffocating. Violent palpitations and violent sweating. Must not give in and be left behind. I will take things quietly. At breakfast, Jean and Jack ask if we would like to share a taxi to Albena � 200 Leva each, there and back (taxi driver would wait for us.) Seemed like a good idea. Ron made his final call to the clinic for 9 months supply of treatment to last him until next summer. Frau doctor laughed when I told her Ron was already dancing. He would have danced all night if we had not forced him on the bus. I said how much we would like to see her in Edinburgh with her husband and son, but she said that Bulgarians could never afford to visit the UK. How very sad. She is a professional lady and her husband is a pharmacist and could not afford the fare.

�Good bye clinic�. It seems a long time since we first nervously walked across the spotless marble floors � we have learned such a lot.

Taxi to Albena was waiting. Such a pleasant young man who speaks excellent English. Jean and Joan are two very bubbly schoolteachers in their 40�s. They hail from London and are lots of fun. This is the way to travel a return journey of approx 50 miles. Cool breeze, all the shopping brought home. We shopped in a cool covered very superior shopping precinct. Sorry to say, bought some more goodies. Ron has given up on me. Even encouraged me to buy a crushed velvet red waistcoat. We had large mushroom omelettes, chips and shandy in a sweet caf� on the beach. Sitting under the bamboo umbrellas, watching the seagulls flying � no passports or visas for them. As free as a bird. I could feel a fine spray on my face as I closed my eyes committing this lovely day to memory with so many others. If only we could be seagulls and I could swap those puffy ankles for a pair of webbed feet. Spread out our white wings and fly home to Scotland. Pity about the luggage.

Must have dozed off. Joan wants us to see the pavement artists. How gifted they are. Had to stifle my addiction. Could have bought half a dozen had I not been so strong willed. Time to return to our taxi. Feel so light headed. Chest hurts a bit. Can�t be bothered showering or changing for dinner. Squirt of perfume, brush my hair, dab of powder. Nadya served Ronnie Reagan with is last �thoup.� He is really sad. He wants to stay here. I have been so very, very happy but I panic whenever I think of the return flight � no air, no breath. Goodnight. Goodbye. Au revoir to all those friends we did not know existed 2 weeks ago. Good night little birds. We will be gone before the dawn chorus or the forests whisper. I told desk to give us a 3.45am call. Cases packed and locked. Had to leave the wine with a tip and a note for the lady who kept our room so beautifully clean. �Have a little party with our love. Thank you for your part in making it a happy holiday.�

Now for a 3 hours snooze.

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Day 15 � Saturday 21 May 1994

Took some Lasix earlier to see if it could remove some fluid. Does not seem to work. I was already in the shower when the early morning call came. The man in the cupboard was already knocking on the door. �Wakey wakey Ron and June� and was singing Flower of Scotland in case we dozed off. Last check of Room 607. Nothing vital left behind. Passport, Visa, flight tickets, sandwich � oh no Ron have mine. A sip of coffee. Bus for the airport here.� Goodbye Hotel Shipka.�

Arrived at the forbidden city of Varna. It did not look menacing in the early dawn light with all the inhabitants asleep � dreaming of the day ahead. I thought of Under Milk Wood and the Bulgarian Captain Cats and Polly Garters snoozing. Airport � sailed through customs. Cases were not too heavy. No buzzers going off. Plane leaving early with very few passengers.

Just noticed my poor feet, now we�re are on the plane. Oh dear, my tummy is all bloated, I can�t breath and I�m so thirsty. The plane has started. Drink, oh please, a large Coke with ice. I drink it down in one gulp and realised it was a large rum and coke. A feeling of d�j� vu about this. Did not want breakfast. Ron did and had mine. Orange juice, yes. Coffee, yes. Sleep, oh sleep. Worry about how you get to Edinburgh from Glasgow with all the luggage when you reach there.

Smooth landing, find luggage quite easily. Breathing bad, it is so cold. Will try to find a taxi to take us home. Now we are here, out in the free, fresh, cold Scottish air. I do not believe it. Morag and Bob � at this time of the morning. I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. We are safe. Relief has arrived. All in the car driving home. Should reach there about 9am. Morag concerned about my breathing and ankles. She suggests we dump the luggage and she would take me immediately to the doctor. Dr Pope immediately phones the Royal Infirmary and writes a referral letter. Immediate admission for tests etc.

The holiday is over but a wealth of wonderful memories will remain. So glad we did not listen to the �Why Bulgaria� cynics and listened to the �go for it� enthusiasts.

I may be lying in a hospital bed but Bulgaria itself was not to blame. This sort of thing could happen in Bathgate or Blackpool.

We would like to return.

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THE NEW MEMBER
by June Hird

Parritch fur ma breakfast
Forfar bridies fur ma tea
Noo their a� are foods fur thought
Since a jined the ALP

The flooer in the gairden
The laverock on the tree
Have goat me peerie-heidit
Noo I�ve jined the ALP

The poetry�s awfie� clever
Wull some wub aff on me?
Could a� write bonnie versus
Noo I�ve jined the ALP?

� June and Laura Hird
Reproduced with permission