On Saturday 7 March Alexander McCall Smith’s tenth No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novel, Tea Time for the Traditionally Built launched in Edinburgh. Three members of Little, Brown went up to visit. Here’s Bobby Nayyar’s retelling of events ... It seemed fitting that the launch party for Tea Time for the Traditionally Built was indeed a tea party. However, this was a tea party like no other, brilliantly held in the National Library of Scotland. A series of white-clothed tables were arranged in the Reading Room to accommodate the hundred plus attendees, each one receiving a careful arrangement of finger sandwiches and bite-sized pastries. Two teas were on offer: redbush for the aficionados, and ordinary for the rest. Alexander McCall Smith was in conversation with Jamie Jauncey, and in very good spirits, speaking at length about the inspiration for Mma Ramotswe, and answering questions from the audience including, 'What would Mma Ramotswe think of Edinburgh?' A book signing followed, a long, orderly queue forming around the room. The McCall Smiths had kindly invited myself, his agent Caroline Walsh, and Roger Cazalet to stay at his house. There was to be a dinner party for twenty people with Richard Beswick also in attendance (he had come up a day earlier and was fittingly staying at a B&B on Scotland Street). After the event there was enough time to stroll back to his house and get settled. Champagne first, then a wonderful recital. Elizabeth McCall Smith, Alexander's wife, had cooked a hearty meal of game pie, baked potatoes, green beans and other vegetables. The party split into two rooms to eat. The conversation and wine flowed, dessert followed, everyone was content. I was pleased to sleep, but quietly conscious and anxious of what was planned for the following day. We were to go walking in the Pentlands, the mountains (OK hills) that overlook Edinburgh. The morning started with a flurry of snow - I thought we were let off, but it soon abated. I had come prepared with sturdy yellow boots and a black Icelandic jacket. Unfortunately myself (and Richard Beswick) weren't so prepared in the trouser department, both of us opting for corduroys - apt for a day spent with Alexander McCall Smith but not so much for walking.
We drove up, there was a faint whiff of testosterone when we were offered hiking sticks, the men politely declining, then accepting after some persuasion. We were joined by a family friend, her son Aidan, a sprightly ten year old, and two of their dogs. Up we went. The first part of the ascent was easy enough, steep but well demarcated, my boots gaining enough traction on the snow-covered terrain, my corduroys dusted but dry. Then the wind picked up. The higher we went, the more it blustered. Richard was wearing a waterproof cycling cape, it ballooned into a bell shape, bellowed in the wind. He took it off and tucked it beneath his leather jacket. I was finding it increasingly hard, the drift of snow cutting across us, the torn sound of the wind. I relied on my stick. Roger, on the other hand, was in his element, streaming ahead, hiking stick retracted and held like a baton behind him. We continued, reaching a point where the party split in two. The McCall Smiths started their descent, another whiff of testosterone kept me going on up. This is where it became extreme. The slope upwards was entirely manageable, the increasing wind was not. We estimated (guessed) that it was around 100mph. We were effectively walking into the wind. I was afraid, firstly for my glasses, that they might blow off, secondly for myself, that I would be following them down. We made it to the top of one of the peaks. At this stage the wind was so severe that we had to lay flat, literally belly or back down. We had gone from hiking to, er, slithering. Accepting that the elements were against us, we turned and began our descent. I plodded and lagged behind. Roger and Aidan took off and ran down against the wind and snow on the clumpy, steep terrain. Snowoffs. Richard's cape then escaped from his jacket. It took off, flew like a marauding polyester ghost. He chased it for a few yards but knew that he had to let it go. There was some humour in the moment, but it was physically impossible for me to laugh. For about half an hour my nose had been streaming an increasingly viscous fluid. I decided to try and excise some, press against one nostril and blow (like wot footballers do). I pressed, I blew, the snot lassoed up and then onto my right spectacle lens. I was temporarily reduced to one eye. Thankfully the force of the wind reduced as we descended. There was only one obstacle left - a river that had thinned to a vein, just past the point of making a leap of it. The corduroy wearers refused to wade across. Instead we treaded along the narrow bank to a bridge. The walk was supremely invigorating, the comfort of the car was however a much welcome relief. My corduroys were muddy and wet, snow had entered my boots and melted beneath the bridges of my feet. I was happy. I couldn't help but be impressed by the McCall Smiths' energy and adaptability to the environment. And their kind and gracious hospitality. I am inspired to walk more. Perhaps after I've bought some waterproof trousers.
Posted 10/03/2009 10:23:15 by Darren Turpin with 0 comments.
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