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Well I have to say that Moscow in June is an entirely different experience from Moscow in January. For the whole time we were there… A reader (Phoenix, AZ) interrupts: Oh no, not another travel entry?! This is getting to be as bad as Larry and his A/C.

Chris continues patiently: …there were clear blue skies and temperatures in the high 80s. Tourists were sitting at pavement cafes, kids were rollerblading in the streets, and the whole place seemed much more relaxed and prosperous than when I was there before, in January of last year. Since the end of communist rule they have restored many of the Orthodox churches, and their gilded domes were gleaming in the sunlight. I don't think it was just the difference between winter and summer either. There were more goods in the shops, fewer beggars on the streets, and a general air of confidence.

As on my previous trip, it was the Russian hospitality that impressed me most. On our first evening there, we were invited to dinner at a dacha outside Moscow that belonged to an eminent retired academician whom I had never met before. This was in a neighbourhood that was more like one of the outer suburbs of an American city than the soulless high rise apartment blocks that most Muscovites live in. The house was large and luxurious, in extensive wooded grounds, and we were treated to a magnificent banquet. Sasha and his wife Rosa were delightful hosts and soon made everyone feel at home. According to Russian custom, everyone is expected to propose a toast at some stage during the meal. When it was my turn to do so, I said that although it was my first visit to this house, it already felt like home to me. I hope I said it in a way that didn't sound too corny. Having got used to it, I quite like this custom of drinking toasts through the meal. It kind of raises the tone of the conversation, and means that everyone has to say something heartfelt and serious at some stage during the evening. It also means that a hell of a lot of vodka gets drunk.

In fact, there was a similar banquet every day of our stay, and it's quite surprising that I'm not severely overweight and suffering from acute alcohol poisoning by now. Once again, my self-regulating metabolism came to the rescue, burning off the excess calories while I slept, and I actually came home weighing a pound or so less than when I left.

The business part of the trip went very smoothly, and we agreed that in future we only need to meet once a year. So it looks as though there will be no more January trips to Moscow, thank goodness. Next June we shall meet in London, and they are suggesting that the following year we should meet in St Petersburg instead of  Moscow. I jumped at that idea, and I told them that if they could organise that then Mary would probably want to come too. That more or less settled things, because the Russians all love Mary (everyone does). So it looks as though our summer travels are booked for the next three years: Barcelona in 2000 (European Math Congress), St Petersburg in 2001 and Beijing in 2002 (another math congress).

You may be wondering how it is that I am posting an entry today, when I had said that I was going to be leaving for Scotland by now. The answer is simple, but slightly embarrassing. I phoned Allan as soon as I got home from Moscow, to check that he was expecting me in Edinburgh this evening and to ask if there was anything I should bring with me. There was a moment of panic at the other end of the phone, and Allan explained that either he or I had the dates wrong. He thought that the cottage was booked from 10 to 17 July, not 3 to 10 July which was what I had in my diary. He went to check the booking and it seems that I was wrong. I somehow put the wrong week in my diary, and so I shall not be going to Edinburgh until Friday of next week.

Okay, you can leave out those sarcastic remarks about absent-minded math profs, I've heard it all before. Anyway, it was just a simple misunderstanding, anyone else might have done the same thing. I'm not even sure whether it was Allan's fault or mine that I got the dates wrong. I checked through our e-mails and couldn't find any mention of dates anywhere, so we must have talked about it on the telephone.

In any case, the change of dates won't cause any serious problems. It does mean that I shall have to come back from Scotland a day early, because we are invited to a wedding in Leeds on the 17th, and I don't want to miss that. Apart from that, I don't have any commitments in that week. 

Monday 5 July

I'm still adjusting to the fact that I'm in Leeds this week, instead of Scotland as I was expecting.

On Saturday our friendly neighbours, knowing that I was going to be leaving Mary on her own for the week, had kindly invited her out for an evening at a picturesque pub in a village near Leeds. They were quite surprised to find that I was coming along too. When they found out the reason, they started laughing at me and asking if I often had difficulty with numbers. What a stupid question. Of course I have difficulty with numbers, nearly all mathematicians do. We're fine with equations, formulas, algorithms, anything like that, but ask us to work out the bill in a restaurant or remember a date correctly and you know there's going to be trouble. Anyway, we had a very pleasant evening at the pub in Sicklinghall. It's just a pity that Mary won't have their company next Saturday, when I really am away in Scotland and she's left on her own.

Since I hadn't made any plans for the weekend, I did absolutely nothing on Sunday, except read the Sunday papers and watch sport on the television (Wimbledon tennis finals, first stage of the Tour de France). I thought it would be nice to have a really lazy day for a change. But actually I hate being that lazy. By the end of the day I was quite close to feeling bored. I have never been bored in my life. I always find something to do or to read, to keep me occupied. But yesterday felt like a totally wasted day. I wouldn't want to be that idle again for a very long time.

At work, on the other hand, it's very pleasant to have no set commitments for the week. My secretary is away this week, and everyone was expecting me to be away too, so nobody is hassling me and I can catch up on some of the jobs that have been lying on my desk for months. Instead of which, I spent most of this morning chatting on ICQ and surfing through net journals. Ah well, that's a pleasant enough way to pass the time, specially when you're getting paid for it.

Thursday 8 July

Yesterday afternoon I went along to the weekly meeting of the MMG group for gay married men. I was pleased to find that they have started to do what I suggested last time I went, giving the meetings a bit more structure. Yesterday they had a visiting speaker, a gay lawyer who was giving advice on things like how divorced men can get access rights to their kids. I realised for the first time that all the regular members of the group are in fact divorced or separated and on very bad terms with their ex-wives, which may be another reason why I don't feel entirely at home in this group. After the meeting they usually drift off to a local gay pub for a drink. I have never gone with them because I can't afford to take that much time off work. Yesterday, I could have spared the time, but I didn't feel inclined to join them. I think I'll just stay on the fringes of this group, and go their meetings once a month or so. If some other people start to show up who are still married and intend to stay that way, then I'll try to get to know them a bit better.

I phoned Allan and Pat this evening just to confirm that they really are expecting me tomorrow. After last week's episode I was beginning to lose confidence that the Scottish holiday was really going to take place at all. But it looks as though all systems are go, and I shall drive up to stay with them in Edinburgh tomorrow, before we go on up to Ullapool on Saturday. Expect me back here around the 18th.

I have been feeling a bit unwell today, and I hope that I'm not developing a fever. I better hadn't be, because I don't intend to let anything stop me going on the Scottish trip. But I have had a headache all day, with sore eyes and joints, tender skin and a general feeling of malaise. Maybe it's caused by heat exhaustion, on the first day in two years that the temperature here has struggled up to over 80ºF. Then again, the fact that the pollen count has gone through the roof doesn't help my allergies.

What I need is a week in the unpolluted northwest of Scotland, where the temperature will be nearer 50ºF (and probably close to freezing on the hill tops).

Catch ya lates. (Omygod, where did I learn to talk like that? I've been reading too many online journals.)

Saturday 17 July

It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die

William Wordsworth, Lyrical ballads

Watching the sun rise over the Grand Canyon, and scuba diving among tropical fish and coral reefs in the Caribbean, would be two of those "perfect" experiences. The rest would all be days spent in the mountains of Scotland: the day on Creag Meaghaidh, the traverse of Liathach, the circuit of An Teallach, maybe one or two others.

To qualify as perfect, a day in the hills has to satisfy certain conditions:

• the weather should be warm and sunny, without too much wind (in the Scottish highlands, that already restricts the possibilities to about one or two days a year);
• I should be walking with a group of old friends, preferably including Allan and Bob (yes I know I said that I was concerned with places, not people; but even lobo solo needs to have some human contact);
• we should climb a mountain that is sufficiently big, remote or difficult that we get a real sense of achievement from reaching the summit;
• somewhere along the route there should be a narrow, exposed ridge that involves some rock scrambling (nothing that requires a rope, though -- we're not into that sort of technical climbing);
• after we come off the mountain, but before getting back to civilisation, we should find a secluded pool below a waterfall, where we can have a quick skinnydip to cool off after the day's exertions.

[Pronunciation guide: Cona'Mheall sounds like "conna veal", Beinn Dearg is pronounced "ben jerrag". I just though you might like to know how to say these Gaelic names properly.]

There were five of us in the party on Monday: Allan, Barbara, Bob, me and Freda, plus Freda's dog Blaven. From the car park, we had to cross about three miles of trackless heather and peat even to get to the foothills of Cona'Mheall. Then we climbed about 1000 feet up a steep grassy slope to a plateau where we could see Coire Ghranda and the south-east ridge of Cona'Mheall. From a distance, the ridge looked practically vertical and unclimbable. At this point, Blaven suddenly developed a mysterious limp and seemed unwilling to go further. Shrewd dog, that one. Freda decided to take Blaven for a low-level walk around the lochan in Coire Ghranda and go back to her car. The rest of us continued towards the ridge. As we got closer we saw that it was not quite as daunting as it first appeared, and that there were several possible paths up its southern end. We chose one of these, and although it was a long hard climb, there was nothing difficult or scary about it. The crest of the ridge, leading to the summit, was narrow and rocky, an exhilarating scramble with wonderful views on both sides.

From the summit we worked our way around the head of Coire Ghranda, descending about 500 feet to a pass and then up to the summit of Beinn Dearg (3547 ft), the highest peak in the Dearg range. From there it was a long but straightforward tramp down across rough country to the car park five or six miles away.

The only thing that stopped it from being a perfect day was that we didn't find a pool for a swim.

It surprises me that I can keep up with the others on these walks, despite taking virtually no exercise during the rest of the year (apart from occasionally going swimming on a Sunday afternoon), and not even feel stiff the following day. I have no explanation for why this should be, but I am grateful for it.

But it is not the physical exercise that makes these days in the hills so special. It is the spiritual refreshment that I get from being in this wild country. It recharges my batteries, and keeps me going through the rest of the year.

I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.
…
Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear---both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

William Wordsworth, Lyrical ballads

Sunday 18 July

I suppose it's typical of me that I should have used my first entry on the Scottish holiday, yesterday, to talk about mountains rather than people. So let's backtrack a few days, to Friday 9 July, when I drove up to Edinburgh to stay overnight with Allan and Pat. I was a bit late arriving, because I had a flat tyre on the road between Galashiels and Edinburgh, and had to change the wheel at the roadside. Of course, the spare wheel in the Volvo is under the floor of the trunk, so I had to take out all my luggage to get at it. Even so, I managed to change the wheel, replace the luggage and get back on the road again within about a quarter of an hour. I thought that was pretty good going.

When I arrived at Allan and Pat's house, Vern and Sue were already there. They are the friends from Houston, Texas, who were going to join us for the week at the cottage in Ullapool. They have two small children, Stevie (9) and Lisa (6). 

Early on Saturday morning, I took the car to the local Kwik-Fit to get a new tyre fitted, while Allan and Vern went grocery shopping to get provisions for the week in the cottage. We then filled my car with the groceries, and the others decided that Vern, Allan and Stevie would drive up to Ullapool in Vern's rental car, and Pat, Sue and Lisa would go in Pat's car. (Allan knows me well enough to realise that I would rather have potatoes than humans for company when driving.) Explaining these arrangements to young Stevie, Vern said "The boys are going in our car, the girls are going in Pat's car and Chris is going in Chris's car." Stevie thought about this for a moment and said "Does that mean Chris isn't either then?" I grinned at him and said "I suppose that's one way of putting it." He then realised that he had said something that might cause offence, and he said "Never mind, I like Chris, he's my friend," and he patted me affectionately on the back, as though he was the adult and I was the child. I thought that was very cute.

Being Stevie's friend was a mixed blessing though, because it turned out that the only thing he wanted to do during every waking hour was to play Pokémon. This is an unutterably boring card game based on a Dungeons & Dragons theme. Stevie also had a Gameboy version of the game, but it was the card game version that he wanted me to play with him all the time that we were in the cottage. My own son Steve went through a D&D phase when he was that age. I had enough of it then to last a lifetime, and I was determined never to have to go through anything like that again. The ingenious solution to this impasse was to teach Stevie to play poker. He quickly realised that this is a far more varied and intellectually stimulating game than Pokémon, and for the rest of the week he was happy to spend the time arguing about whether a straight is worth more than two pairs.

We stopped at Blair Atholl for lunch on our way up to Ullapool, and arrived at  the cottage late in the afternoon to find that Bob was already there. Barbara arrived later, bringing our numbers up to nine. The cottage has five bedrooms, and I had to share a very small room with Bob. First time in many years that I have slept in bunk beds. We tossed a coin for who should have the upper bunk, and I ended up with the lower one. At our age, the only thing you care about when sharing a room with a friend is that he shouldn't snore. Fortunately Bob doesn't.

I forgot about Freda. She joined us for a couple of days, with her dog Blaven. Blaven is an old english sheepdog, the type with fur that flops down all over its face. Freda keeps the fur pinned back with a child's hair slide so Blaven can see where she is going. As you might guess, Blaven is named after a Scottish mountain (which is actually spelt Bla Bheinn, but pronounced Blaven).
Freda and Blaven had to stay in a motel in Ullapool, because Allan wouldn't have the dog staying in the cottage.

I've run out of time and energy to write any more this evening. Maybe I'll say some more about the holiday next time, maybe I won't.

Thursday 22 July

I have not been exactly inundated with pleas for more details of the Scottish trip, so I shall keep my memories for myself, and treasure them until my next visit. I had to drive back from Ullapool a day early, last Friday, because we were invited to a wedding in Leeds on Saturday.

Mary has a close friend Christine, whom she met through the local M.E. group. Actually she is called Chris, but I have problems with Chris as a female name so I always call her Christine. She is in her mid 40s and was married for many years to a guy called Eric, who died three years ago. I never knew Eric, because we only got to know Christine shortly after his death. I wish I had known him, because I think I would have had a lot in common with him. His musical tastes were almost identical to mine, and from time to time Christine gives me some of his large collection of CDs, mostly consisting of obscure classical piano music, which Christine hates and I love.

Earlier this year, Christine started going out with Simon (another member of the local M.E. group), and it was their wedding that we went to last Saturday. The wedding took place in the Leeds registry office, the first time that I had ever been to a non-church wedding. The ceremony was short and simple, and I thought it was much improved by having all the religious stuff removed. But it did jar to hear marriage described as "the lifelong union between a man and a woman." Maybe the day will come when this sexist language will be removed, and a union between any two individuals will be recognised by the state as a marriage.

Mary and I took Christine and Simon out for a meal a few weeks ago, as an engagement present. At the end of the evening, they said that their ambition was to stay married for as long as we already have been (over 33 years now) and after all that time to be as happy together as we are now. They said the same thing again on Saturday, which pleased us both.

I don't think there can be any single secret of success for a lifelong partnership. So much depends on the personalities of the people concerned. When Mary and I got married, some well-meaning friend gave us a book called Modern Marriage, which pushed the idea that two partners should aim to grow more and more like each other, and to mould their personalities and interests so that they shared everything in common. Mary and I knew instinctively that  a relationship like that would be impossibly claustrophobic for us, and we were glad to find another book called Open Marriage. This was based on the premise that no one person can possibly be all things to another, and that individuals need to have their own space and freedom within a relationship. I'm not talking about sexual freedom here, but the intellectual freedom to have some mental space for oneself. It has worked pretty well for us, and I hope it will for Christine and Simon.

Wednesday 28 July

Hmm, it's nearly a week since I updated, and it has been a busy week, but not in a way that makes for interesting material here. After several weeks without visitors, we have had a sudden spate of them.

First, we had a call from John and Eva to say that they were in town. They live in Tucson, AZ, but they like to spend their summers in Europe to escape the heat. So we invited them round to dinner one day last week. As usual, they wanted to know when we are going to visit them in Tucson. That made me realise (with some regret) that if I had accepted the offer of a sabbatical year at Penn, we would already be making arrangements to leave for America by now. Oh well, some other year….

Eileen came to stay for the weekend. She and Mary worked in the same office when we were in Manchester. That was well over 20 years ago, and they have kept in touch ever since. It was a very warm weekend by Leeds standards, and we were able to sit out in the garden on the new patio and have a barbecue dinner (the first time for at least two years that it has been warm enough to be able to do that on our windy hilltop).

This evening, we have another visitor, Mary's friend Stephanie. I joined them for dinner, but now I have left them to natter in the family room, while I retreat to the computer and listen to the Promenade concert on the radio (a Chopin concerto and Franck's Symphony).

I took the day off work on Monday to drive Mary to her dentist in Harrogate. When we got home, I noticed that one of the front tyres was nearly flat. This was the one that was replaced by Kwik-Fit in Edinburgh only a couple of weeks ago. So I drove (cautiously!) to the Kwik-Fit in Leeds and explained what had happened. They immediately took off the wheel, found that the valve had a slow leak and replaced it for free. In a world where car dealers and garages are almost uniformly rogues and crooks, Kwik-Fit shines out as a beacon of honesty and good value. But they don't seem to have a web site, so I can't link to them.

I came across this poem a while back in Cris's journal, and it has been rattling around insistently in my mind.

How To Watch Your Brother Die
Michael Lassell

When the call comes, be calm.
Say to your wife, "My brother is dying. I have to fly to California."
Try not to be shocked that he already looks like a cadaver.
Say to the young man sitting by your brother's side,
"I'm his brother."
Try not to be shocked when the young man says,
"I'm his lover. Thanks for coming."

Listen to the doctor with a steel face on.
Sign the necessary forms.
Tell the doctor you will take care of everything.
Wonder why doctors are so remote.

Watch the lover's eyes as they stare into your brother's eyes as they stare into space.
Wonder what they see there.
Remember the time he was jealous and opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick.
Forgive him out loud even if he can't understand you.
Realize the scar will be all that's left of him.

Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria say to the lover,
"You're an extremely good-looking young man."
Hear him say, 
"I never thought I was good enough looking to deserve your brother."

Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say,
"I'm sorry. I don't know what it means to be the lover of another man."
Hear him say,
"It's just like a wife, only the commitment is deeper because the odds against you are so much greater."
Say nothing, but take his hand like a brother's.

Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might help him live longer.
Explain what they are to the border guard.
Fill with rage when he informs you,
"You can't bring those across."
Begin to grow loud.
Feel the lover's hand on your arm restraining you.
See in the guard's eye how much a man can hate another man.
Say to the lover, "How can you stand it?"
Hear him say, "You get used to it."
Think of one of your children getting used to another man's hatred.

Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her,
"He hasn't much time. I'll be home soon."
Before you hang up say,
"How could anyone's commitment be deeper than a husband and wife?"
Hear her say,
"Please. I don't want to know all the details."

When he slips into an irrevocable coma, hold his lover in your arms while he sobs, no longer strong.
Wonder how much longer you will be able to be strong.
Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms whose arms are used to holding men.
Offer God anything to bring your brother back.
Know you have nothing God could possibly want.
Curse God, but do not abandon Him.

Stare at the face of the funeral director when he tells you he will not
embalm the body for fear of contamination.
Let him see in your eyes how much a man can hate another man.

Stand beside a casket covered in flowers, white flowers. Say,
"Thank you for coming," to each of several hundred men who file past in tears, some of them holding hands.
Knowing that your brother's life was not what you imagined.
Overhear two mourners say, "I wonder who'll be next?" and
"I don't care anymore, as long as it isn't you."

Arrange to take an early flight home.
His lover will drive you to the airport.
When your flight is announced say, awkwardly, 
"If I can do anything, please let me know."
Do not flinch when he says,
"Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him after he told you. He did."
Stop and let it soak in. Say,
"He forgave me, or he knew himself?"
"Both," the lover will say, not knowing what else to do.
Hold him like a brother while he kisses you on the cheek.
Think that you haven't been kissed by a man since your father died. Think,
"This is no moment not to be strong."

Fly first class and drink Scotch.
Stroke your split eyebrow with a finger and think of your brother alive.
Smile at the memory and think how your children will feel in your arms, warm and friendly and without challenge.

Friday 30 July

I spent yesterday evening playing the piano, something I have not done for at least two years. Just be glad you weren't there to hear me.

My mother was a good pianist, and some of my earliest memories are of watching her playing her favourite Chopin waltzes on the piano in our sitting room. She arranged for me to have piano lessons when I was about ten, but I did not show much aptitude for it, and after a year or so my parents decided that they couldn't afford lessons any more. Still, I continued to enjoy playing the piano, even if nobody else took much pleasure in hearing me. Playing a musical instrument is an excellent way to relieve stress, and I found it a great help in overcoming the tensions and frustrations of my teenage years. Not just the teenage years, come to think of it - all through my life I have turned to the piano when I need to calm down and relax. But I could never be bothered to learn to play properly. I would rather play a good piece of music badly than plug away at tedious exercises.

When Mary and I bought our first house, one of the first items we bought was a piano. In those days, nobody wanted old pianos, and I bought one from a neighbour for £10. I am the only one in our family who played it. Mary plays the guitar, and when Steve was going through his worst period of teenage alienation, depressed and turning to drugs, she persuaded him to learn the guitar. It was his salvation, he found the same consolation in it that I get from the piano. He is now a pretty good flamenco guitarist.

After my parents died, the only thing that I really wanted from their home was my mother's piano (which had previously belonged to my grandmother, and must be nearly 100 years old). It took me several years to get round to it, but I eventually arranged to have it brought up from Bromley to our house in Leeds. For a few weeks we were a two-piano household, until I found a piano dealer/tuner who offered me £300 for my £10 piano (apparently the market for old pianos has picked up a lot in recent years). I was glad to accept her offer, and I also asked her to tune my mother's piano. She was dubious about whether she could do this. The piano is a very old-fashioned upright model (overstrung and overdamped, for those who know about the technicalities of piano design). It is a beautiful piece of furniture, with a fine walnut veneer, but it has a heavy and cumbersome action that makes it difficult to play. Some of the pegs that hold the strings tight were loose in their sockets, and the piano tuner said that she needed to come back in a few weeks to check that she had managed to tighten them sufficiently.

This took place in December 1997, and it was not until last week that I finally got round to contacting the piano tuner to ask her to come back and check whether any of the pegs had slipped. (I'm not always very prompt at getting things done, but I get round to them eventually.) She came to look at the piano yesterday, and found that it only needed some very slight adjustments to bring it back into tune. So yesterday evening I was able to indulge myself playing some of Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words (just the slow ones - I can't play anything fast or difficult).

Why haven't I touched the piano for the past two years or more? I think the answer is that I got hooked on the internet. Surfing the net, emailing online friends and constructing this web site give me the same sort of relaxation and contentment that I used to get from playing the piano. But it's good to have the piano back in action again. I'm going to post this entry now, and then see if I can still play any of Bach's Goldberg Variations.

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