Well tonight was an absolutely splendid evening and a perfect end to my last Martinmas term at St Andrews. It was spent at the beautiful home of Professor and Mrs. John Haldane who warmly invited us in for a wonderful little end-of-term bash with plentiful food and drink. Nunc est bibendum indeed. What’s more is that good cheer and great conversation flowed almost as freely as the wine, and I dare say the dozen-plus of we merry Catholic students had a most enjoyable time. We were all very grateful that Mr. and Mrs. Haldane were kind enough to open their home to us, as they have done in the past.

Rather like the home of Pierre Loti in Rochefort (which, if ever one is in Charente-Maritime, I firmly recommend visiting), the Haldanes’ is unassuming and quite normal on the exterior but the first step inside reveals a splendid little kingdom of assorted treasures. Icons, books, paintings, sketches, engravings, crosses, busts, statues, and so on and so forth line all the walls leaving little free space but at the same time lacking a feeling of crowdedness or chaos. Professor Haldane (recently made a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre) introduced us to a number of the works in his living room including some actual sketches of dueling swordsmen by G.K. Chesterton, prints by Eric Gill, and various other works of art and items of interest such as military medals of ancestors and crusader coins and St Andrean ephemera. While I was wandering through his library, Prof. Haldane and I discussed the splendours of Gothic architecture and the revival of traditional (albeit mostly classical) architecture especially at the University of Notre Dame’s School of Architecture, and architects like Quinlan Terry, Demetri Porphyrios and such.

With plenty of eats and drinks it was quite a merry time and it’s mildly disconcerting that I must awake in only just over five hours to catch my flight home to the Big Apple but, God willing, I will make it. It will be absolutely magnificent to be home in Westchester, to sit by the fire with the dog – or dogs rather since my sister and brother-in-law will be up with their dogs as well – and of course to have the pleasure of driving again. (Ah, Audi A6, how I miss thy German engineering!). Then there are the little splendours of Bronxville with the bookshop and St. Joseph’s and all my friends back in town, not to mention dichotomous Manhattan in all it’s glory. Ah, the wonders of home; deo gratias!

Noblemen
• The Rt Hon the Lord Cullen of Whitekirk: An alumnus of St Andrews and outgoing Lord President of the Court of Session (Scotland’s highest court).
• James Douglas-Hamilton, Baron Selkirk of Douglas: Former Tory Member of Parliament, now a Tory Member of the Scottish Parliament, and some relation of Harry Douglas-Hamilton who graduated last year.
• The Most Noble James Graham, 8th Duke of Montrose: The only duke still allowed to sit in the House of Lords after Blair’s butchering of the hereditary peer. Actually the Duke of Norfolk sits as well, but that’s ex officio since he’s the Earl Marshal.
Commoners
• Donald Findlay, QC: Unlikely since he’s been virtually blacklisted by the University since he was discovered singing sectarian songs a few years ago.
• George Reid, MSP: Presiding Officer of the Scottish Parliament.
• James Danforth ‘Dan’ Quayle: Forty-fourth Vice President of the United States and apparently a fan of St Andrews (he came to speak here last year).

Might I suggest:
• His Majesty Constantine II, King of the Hellenes: Exiled King of Greece living in London, Olympic Gold Medalist (Sailing), overthrown by some colonels in 1967, and godfather to William Wales ’05.
• Merlin Charles Sainthill Hanbury-Tracy, 7th Baron Sudeley: Chairman of the Constitutional Monarchy Association, Vice-Chancellor of the International Monarchist League.
• Lord Gill: Lord Justice Clerk of the Court of Session and thus Scotland’s second-most senior judge, who if elected might possibly be the first Catholic chancellor since the Protestant Revolution.
• His Royal Highness the Prince Andrew, Duke of York: Fought in the Falklands War, son of the Queen, frequent visitor to St Andrews owing to his Captaincy of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club
• His Royal Highness Prince Michael of Kent: Supporter and Patron of numerous charities as well as Romanov enthusiast.
• The Rt Hon Betty Boothroyd, Baroness Boothroyd: Former Speaker of the House of Commons, now sitting in the Lords as a cross-bencher. Alright, she is a woman, but she’s still pretty good. At 74, she’s at least old enough.

One of the interesting things about living in St. Salvator’s Hall is that one of the beautiful stained-glass windows in our wood-panelled dining hall is dedicated to Edward Harkness, and contains depictions of both the Big Apple and the Auld Gray Toon. Harkness was a benefactor of the University of St Andrews; in fact, he built St. Salvator’s Hall, as well as funding the renovation of the University Chapel (St. Salvator’s) and the restoration of the ruined St. Leonard’s Chapel. (more…)

Just when you think you’re about to finish your dissertation, an epidemic of good times breaks out. Here are a few photos of late. (more…)

G.R.V.H.I.

W. Calderhead and C. C..

Today we had the pleasure of participating in the Inverness IVs Head Race. It brought forth mixed results. The girls did really well, and one of the guys crews did really well. Our boat on the other hand managed to crash. Twice! But, you know, we added a dash of the spirit of Admiral Farragut, full speed ahead, etc., and still managed to finish the race. Only second to last. Pity the poor bastards who didn’t even manage to beat us. They would’ve had to have sunk or something not to have overtaken us.

Inverness is more or less the capital of the Highlands, thus it’s terribly far north. So far north that when we arrived I said “Why on earth would they stick a country so far north?” which most present found to be a generally amusing comment on the northerliness of our current position until one chap said “Well I’ve been skiing in Trondheim”. Mark my words, whenever one makes a salient point, there’s always someone who’s been skiing in Trondheim.

Nonetheless, we managed to return to St Andrews in a shockingly quick under three hours. I found a few minutes to chat online with Allison Burbage, who in conversation emphathised with the feeling that it is sometimes such a burden to be superior to so many people. Allison would know; she’s superior to most. Then she went away to nurse a G&T in the neighboring dorm room. These crazy kids.

Three sausages for breakfast, followed by reading from Gordon Brook Shepherd’s life of Empress Zita. Purchased my usual sugar doughring from Fisher and Donaldson and the latest Country Life from J&G Innes (all about London this week). The options for luncheon in hall were of asiatic origin so I boycotted and ate about half a loaf of buttered brown bread instead while reading Country Life in the Common Room of Canmore. There were a few people there; Adrian cataloguing the Catholic Truth Society pamphlets out of nothing better to do, Stefano sitting around waiting for his next tutorial, Liam lurking about, and “Ishmael” came in just to be social.

For a while we savaged Stefano because of his desire to show dirty films about Venetian courtesans in Canmore. Canmore, the Catholic Chaplaincy mind you, and Stefano is President of the Catholic Society. “Ishmael” and I slagged him off for being a dirty continental, which he just sort of brushed aside. We thought he was being a bit imperious, perhaps even episcopal, so we decided to turn the chair he was seated in into an impromptu sedia gestatoria. “Ishmael”, Adrian, Liam, and I each took one leg and raised His Foppishness aloft, processed him out of the Common Room, into the hallway, out the door, and into the street. We made as if we were going to give him the old heave-ho but eventually just put him down and ran back inside. Earlier he had taken off his shoes, and thus was stuck in the chair, in the street without any shoes on. By then we had gathered in the window to witness the poor man, yelling at us to carry him aloft “back into the palace”, gesticulating wildly, pointing out his lack of footgear. And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed. Eventually he got tired of our churlish manner and hopped back into the building, avoiding a puddle or two. “I hate you all,” he said, “and you didn’t carry me high enough,” then descending into ramblings about how at the next Catholic Society meeting the president should enter the room in a sedia. We resumed savaging him, and I had another slice of brown bread.

A little while later, I looked out towards the sea and the West Sands and felt them calling me forth. I had not gone for a walk along the beach yet this term, and it seemed as good a time as any. Though the sun was out I brought along my umbrella, just in case, and headed down past the Royal & Ancient Golf Club, past the putting green, and onto the Sands. Walks along the beach must be done at a very relaxed and leisurely rate. Every now and then I came across some driftwood or other such things that wash up on the beaches of Fife and gave them a little prod with my brolly and then, curiousity satisfied, carried along. I travelled about two thirds of the way down before seeking shelter from the breeze in one of the little dales within the dunes, took out some Marcus Aurelius that was hiding in my jacket pocket and had a little read. When I felt that my thirst for the wisdom of the ages was at least temporarily quenched, I decided to head back into town along the dune route. The beach is, as you would imagine, flat, whereas coming back along the dunes is a constant up and down through narrow sandy crevices with lots of reeds and tall grass on either side of you. If you ever visit St Andrews, you must go for a walk along the West Sands, and it’s advisable (if suitably agile) to walk at least partially along the dune paths.

Heading back into town, a Japanese couple asked me to take their photo in front of the R&A, and I duly obliged before slipping into the Quarto bookshop. The Quarto sells used books, and I had a good look around to see if there was anything new to peruse. I had a little read through a book on the history and traditions of the Channel Islands before heading back to hall, and here I am now, transcribing the day’s journey to you. Nothing left today but circuit training for the Boat Club, followed by a meeting of said august body. Hope it doesn’t last too long, else I’ll miss dinner. Some sort of pasta dish tonight; should be at least edible.

Previously: The West Sands

As I was walking to Mass this morning, I enjoyed listening to the crunch and brush of leaves underfoot that so wonderfully heralds the autumnal season. Today is one of those beautiful fall days when the sun is shining, the air is crisp, the wind slight, and the temperature slightly chilled but nowhere near uncomfortable.

Yesterday evening I had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Michael Fryer, who is surely the funniest man in all of Fife (at least whenever he’s in Fife; he’s an Ulsterman after all). We were both lamenting the fact that, in spite of St Andrews advertising itself as the university at which one is most likely to find one’s spouse, both of us are in our fourth year and remain as yet without prospective permanent ladyfolk. Right then, Dr. Brian Lang (the Principal and Vice-Chancellor, the man who runs the University) happened to walk into the pub and I considered walking over and demanding a refund, but the conversation turned to subjects greater in mundanity.

Another great thing about this time of year is the wearing of the poppy. No one seems to be quite sure when Remembrancetide begins and when the poppy should first be worn. In the absence of any official protocol to my knowledge, I usually judge that as soon as the Scottish Poppy Appeal start collecting money and distributing poppies, then is the time for wearing them. When it comes to Remembrance Sunday itself, I never miss the Festival of Remembrance broadcast on the telly, and neither should you. It’s a disgrace that it’s not broadcast on the web for those throughout the world unable to see it on their televisions. Still, it’s great to see so many poppies worn about town by young and old alike.

Later on last evening I had the added bonus of a pint and smoke with another Irishman, Mr. Alexander O’Hara of Galway. Alec and I are both fans of the pipe, and we enjoyed a good pint and some conversation a little late into the evening. Alec’s company is enjoyable because, like me, he is anti-social, and there are few things more enjoyable than being anti-social with other anti-social people. He’s in the midst of his doctoral thesis on Norwegian saints, which means he has to nitpick through various Latin manuscripts, translating them himself. Poor man! Still, he’ll have something to show for it at the end.

Well, unfortunately there’s work to be done so I must be off. A very happy All Saints’ Day to you all!

Here we observe the wastrel in his natural habitat: passed out on a sofa in a student flat at the University of St Andrews — the institution with the highest per capita number of wastrels in the British Commonwealth of Nations. In actual fact, Rob & Maria made an official visit up to Andreanopolis this weekend, and Abigail, Adrian, and Pamela graciously through a dinner party in their honour at Step Rock Cottage; Rob and Maria are exiled monarchs of the Catholic dinner party circuit.

The sad thing is this photo was taken before the party even started. I was exhausted from having woken up at 7:00am and spent the entire day rowing at Strathclyde Park that I just dragged myself over to the cottage on Gillespie Wynd at the appointed time in the evening and collapsed on the sofa in front of the crackling fire. It was sublime.

Below you can see Father Freddy, the resident chaplain at Step Rock Cottage, garbed in the appropriate chasuble for the liturgical season. He stands on the window sill blessing the herb garden all day long, or at least he usually does. At the moment he’s on his way to Downside for a retreat.

Has our former Gifford Research Fellow spent too much time considering jus in bello? Nay, rather John Lamont, aka Big John, sends these photos as proof of his efforts to combat the avian flu business that’s going round.

There’s the culprit! Duly nabbed by JL.

Looks tasty. Rather envious!

Despite the ban on students flying flags from their windows, I’m happy to say that four students hung Union Jacks out their windows in St Salvator’s Hall today to mark the Battle of Trafalgar. Two were on the front side of hall, two on the back. I took photos of the two on the front side. Mine is above, and the other one below (I don’t know to whom the room belongs).

Twas on this day two centuries ago that the Royal Navy under Lord Nelson gave the combined French and Spanish fleet a right good whalloping, thus ensuring that freedom and responsible constitutional government would flourish and spread for two centuries afterward.

So today we raise a glass to Lord Nelson, and spit on the name Bonaparte! (And Hitler, and Stalin, and Brussels, and any such nastiness the continent dare throw against the English-speaking peoples of the world!).

George, Cockburn the Younger, and yours truly were sitting in the pub this evening when George got a text message on his phone from none other than 2Lt. W. Calderhead, currently serving in Iraq. It read something like

Very non-chalant. Very Calderhead. Anyhow, a package of goodies shall be heading Bill’s way quite soon.

Tonight a very intelligent friend of mine informed me that she believes I am a wastrel and that I have squandered my university years. I found this very interesting (and a tad funny), considering that it is my firm belief that I have gotten more out of my years at St Andrews than I had ever expected I would. Are there regrets, should’ves, and why-didn’t-I’s? Of course. Hindsight, after all, is 20/20, but I do not regret my relative inattention to grades.

It all comes down to standards. By whose standards does one judge a quartet of university years? I believe that there are a number of ways to measure success, or the lack thereof, during one’s time at university. I myself have never found the pursuit of academic achievement particularly fulfilling. This is not to say I think it is a bad thing; by no means. I have the utmost respect for my friends who excel academically. I always found, for example, David Taylor’s record of achievement particularly worthy of respect and admiration, especially considering he was neither a recluse nor socially awkward. But I think excellence in academics should not be the only way to judge a university career. Whether this is self-serving because I have not excelled academically I leave up to the reader to decide.

In my St Andrews years, so far, I’ve founded, edited, and managed a successful newspaper which has earned high accolades, I’ve co-founded a literary review, I’ve donated my time to committees for multiple terms despite finding it particularly distasteful and unenjoyable, I’ve been president of a private club (which involves not only working with a committee but coördinating and directing it while also having to maintain continuity with the traditions of the group and not peeve the members), I’ve had some pretty good nights on the town, I’ve made friendships that I know will last a lifetime, I’ve (lately) taken up a sporting activity conscienciously, most importantly I’ve done my utmost to be a good Christian as well as to note when, where, and how I have fallen short of that ideal in order to prevent future failings, and on top of all these non-academic things, I have learnt a great deal of knowledge. I don’t have the grades to show for it because I never felt the need to justify what I have learnt and how I have learnt it to an external examiner, besides which much (if not most) of my learning of history, philosophy, and culture during my university years to date has been outside the framework of my courses.

In my view, what I have managed to do in my years is worthwhile and should not be discounted. In comparison to getting 17s, 18s, and 19s in every course, while being social and doing just a few extracurriculur things on the side, I prefer my track record instead. I nonetheless think that both are admirable and worthwhile approaches to university. Contrarily, the young lady in question believes that the academic must be the only important yardstick used to judge these years, and consequently she thinks I a wastrel and strongly disapproves.

(I hope, dear reader, that you will not regard this entry as an exercise in ‘navel-gazing’, as they say. I am not a very self-reflecting, overanalytical person. I am not highly critical of myself, nor do I let myself off easily. It did not particularly irritate, offend, or wound me that I am thought by at least one intelligent person to be a wastrel, but I found it a good opportunity for debate and discussion and so have put forth my view accordingly.)

I THINK IT WAS Cousin Jasper in Brideshead Revisited who told Charles Ryder to switch his ground-floor rooms for a more suitable arrangement. Charles, of course, failed to heed his elder cousin’s advice, and last night I couldn’t help but wonder if the inhabitants of a ground floor flat on Greyfriars Gardens wished they had been given a similar recommendation. An assemblage of young gentlemen, having moved from one pub to another and then making their way down Greyfriars stumbled upon an open window and, discovering that merriment was ongoing within, took it upon themselves to use that very portal as a mode of entrance. Quite succesfully, I might add, for it was a very wide window and not terribly high up. Upon gaining entrance, they proceeded to join in the merriment, which chiefly revolved around a triumvirate of good conversation, bad wine, and pretty young ladies. (I managed to inculcate one in the history of the Order of Malta). I ran into fellow oarsman Rory Mcdonald (who, despite his Scottish name, is from Norfolk) with his academic mother who dropped a coin in my beverage and told me I had to save the Queen from drowning by downing my glass right then and there. I took my time (God bless Her Majesty, but she’s only a Saxe-Coburg).

The evening had begun a few hours previous in the Chariots bar with yours truly, George, J.E.B., Ben, Tom Marshall, Rorie, Cockburn the Younger (worse for wear having been dealt a dirty pint in the Mess the night previous to celebrate his birthday), a rather confused ‘Dougal’ in black tie, Jon Burke (legend), Manuel, Cameron (President of Fin Fur & Feather), a chap named Will, and someone else I’m quite sure. Apparently J.E.B.’s going to reconquer India and I’ll be made Viceroy. This was decided as some sort of recompense for India going republican before Enoch Powell could be appointed to the viceregal throne. A brilliant linguist, it was his life’s ambition until ’47, and he was heartbroken when it became impossible. Ego sum linguiste très mal, but I don’t think I’d mind the job. Surely it just involves officially opening schools and hospitals and such, spending the rest of the time napping through cricket matches and sitting in a club sipping G&T’s and saying in a firm, authoritative voice “The sun never sets on the British Empire”. Comes with nice digs as well, designed by Lutyens. There are worse jobs, no doubt. Anyhow there was some bloody good chat, excellent banter.

Intelligence reports indicating that 1 Golf Place was overcrowded we decided not to make our way there to enjoy their two-pint steins, and so headed to the Tudor Inn (a rather townie pub) instead. There we ran into some Germans (Hamburgers, even) in town for the golf and spoke with them. Ed tried to speak to them in his broken German; somehow the term ‘Britischer Wehrmacht’ doesn’t seem quite the right translation. We tried to give them a bit of British culture by singing “I Vow To Thee, My Country” but it literally drove half the punters out of the pub, and the barman asked us to desist. It was then we sought out proposals for further enjoyment in alternative locations, and decided to move the forces southward accordingly. Twas then, of course, we discovered the open window in Greyfriars Gardens and good times ensued.

THE LAST UNFINISHED cathedral in the Church of England was finally finished this year with the completion of the crossing tower of St. Edmundsbury Cathedral. The tower was not only designed in the Suffolk perpindicular style but also constructed using traditional techniques. The brick and masonry spire is held together by lime mortar, without an inch of steel or concrete.

The Cathedral is built on the grounds which still contain the ruins of the great abbey of Bury St Edmunds. The site of the current cathedral has held a church since 1065, completely rebuilt on three or four occasions. The current chancel dated from 1865, while the nave was begun centuries before in 1503. (more…)

LAST NIGHT WAS, shall we say, a doozy. It began about half past eight when I sauntered over to the flat of George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin in Southgait Hall. (Astute followers of the Cossack will recall that I lived in the same building last year). George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin wasn’t in, as he was busy instructing young’uns how to kill, but C. was in since he’s been up visiting for the past few days. We cracked open some beers and watched the second half of an episode of Law and Order before heading over to Wyvern (HQ A Sqd, TUOTC) for some Wednesday evening revelry in the Mess.

The Mess, as we all know, is an oasis of old-school fun in our ever-changing world. Eventually a poker game broke out in the anteroom; an entertaining little melée involving yours truly, the Infamous C., George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin, Phil Evans, Cockburn the Younger, Alex Findlay, and a chap named Will. Now, I am a rubbish poker player and so accordingly am I a rare poker player, even more so if money is involved. Nonetheless, the buy-in was cheap so I gave it a go, failed miserably but bought in again and twas then that Fortuna began to smile upon my adventures. C. is quite proud of his poker-playing abilities, but I managed to bluff him into betting everything he had then hit him with the nasty surprise of my triumvirate of aces. Kicked out of the game by Cusack – that’s got to be embarassing. The man looked as if he’d just been told his prize-winning horse had just been eaten by an erstwhile Chechen terrorist who mistook it for one of the King’s Troop. He went back into the Mess in hopes of elevating the chat there (a handfull of souls had wandered into the anteroom informing us of the poor state of chat next door). A little while afterwards I managed to goad George into a large stake and deprived him of it quite readily. There was nothing on the table but I had ace-9, he had ace-2. Bummer for him!

There I was, drunk as a lord and rich as a Russian oligarch (or would’ve been if the chips were oil company shares). The others slowly ran out of capital and it was finally down to George, Alex (or was it Phil?), and yours truly. I was in the lead and decided to play it safe, but Phil (I think it was Phil, Alex was out earlier) went all in against George and lost, putting Georgie boy in the lead. (No, actually it was Alex, not Phil). We agreed to end at a quarter to 12:00, and so did, splitting the meagre winnings proportionally betwixt the two of us. Cockburn the Younger was quite upset with my victory and kept grunting “bloody colonial!” much in the same vein as Cockburn the Elder would were he present. Fine game, fine game.

We crossed the hall to return to the last few minutes of Mess time and witnessed some forfeits in process and joined in some bawdy singing. Now at midnight the bell’s rung, the glasses are put down, the Sergeant Major yells and the fun’s over. And had that been the end of the evening it still would’ve been a splendid one… were it not for those two words: after party. Now, that after parties can be splendid things I will certainly concede. But in my old age I prefer to be in bed reading E. Digby Baltzell by 11:00 and here it was, past midnight, and I was still out. Nonetheless, being taken by the festive spirit and with C. being up I thought to myself “After party? What the hey! Why not…” And thus a procession of students varyingly attired in camoflouge uniforms, blue blazers, or tweed jackets snaked its way towards the flat in Wallace Street shared by OCDT Charlie Hazlerigg and WOCDT Jen Stewart.

We were greeted by a little white terrier named Helen I think, though I referred to it constantly as Mackintosh for reasons no longer contained within my knowledge. It was a good after-party with some good chat and I’m not quite sure what time it was when I left, but I think it may have been nearly two in the morning. Somewhere in this equation I ran into a gaggle of gowned debaters, Miss Jennings among them in her gown of office as Education Officer of the Students Association. I confiscated the gown, donned it myself, and apparently, flailing my arms about and running around, announced to all of South Street that I was the Education Officer until Henry Evans (sometime head of the Conservative and Unionist Association) re-requisitioned it and returned it to its rightful bearer. We also ran into some Australians who agreed with me that Boston is a very silly place. I’m told that was around 2:00am.

Curiously as I finally made my way back to Sallies, I ran into Dr. Jens Timmerman. He had only just left Edgecliffe (the home of the School of Philosophy) and was on his way home. Dr. Timmerman is absolutely brilliant. One half wonders what he was up to in his office, with his 1925 Triumph typewriter, Keble College straw boater, and deep crimson doctoral cap and gown from the University of Göttingen. Musing on Kant, no doubt. (Dr. Timmerman is an expert on and devotée of Kant). I’m sure I’ll see him at the Kens club dinner on Saturday.

And then, finally, home, sleep, and the comfort of one’s own bed. There are few things as priceless as that.

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