Autumn in highland Perthshire, in Scotland, is a time for changing colors in the trees, a crisp edge ot the air, and a time for celebrating music, with a festival whose name celebrates autumn: Perthshire Amber.

Internationally known songwriter and composer Dougie MacLean founded the festival. Even if you’re not up on your Scottish music, you will have heard his songs, especially such ones as the unofficial anthem of Scots everywhere, Caledonia, and Ready for the Storm, which has been recorded by Grammy winning American country artist Kathy Mattea. MacLean has written loads of songs, so part of his reason for founding the festival was to be able to share more of those than he gets to do in just one evening’s concert. With the festival he gets to bring in musical friends and their work as well, and to showcase his well loved Perthshire.

This year, Perthshire Amber will take place from 29th October through 5th November. Artists on hand will include renown Irish singer Heidi Talbot, top Scottish fiddle player and composer John McCusker, the Irish band Beoga, and award wining Scottish singer Emily Smith, They and other artists on the bill will appear in venues ranging from concert halls to town halls, from castles to crannogs.

There will be workshops, talks, and sessions on offer as well, and a popular festival feature called the Songbus returns. . Riders who book tickets on the bus are treated to music and a picnic lunch as they visit sites in Perthshire having to to with music. This year, there’s an emphasis on outdoor activities, with walks and a horse trek among the possibilities.

As ever at Perthshire Amber, festival goers will have the chance to give back, by contributing food to Amber Harvest and by creating or buying woven goods at The Big Knit. Proceeds from both go to help those in need of food and warm clothing in Scotland.

In past years, the festival has streamed and posted videos of the goings on for those who aren’t able to make it to Perthshire. The festival web site Perthshireamber.com, will keep you up to date on the plans for this year.

photo is of the Irish band Beoga, who will appear at Perthshire Amber this year. it is courtesy of the band

Gaelic singer Julie Fowlis recorded a live album at Perthshire Amber and shared a song with Dougie MacLean.

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A number of things flashed through my mind in the moments after I crossed the finish line of Grete’s Great Gallop, an annual half-marathon in Central Park named after the iron woman that was Grete Waitz, a Norwegian runner who won the New York City Marathon an astounding nine times between 1978 and 1988. (She passed away earlier this year at age 57 after a long fight with cancer.)

I of course thought about my finish time and the grueling, always-feels-like-you’re-going-uphill course I’d just (barely) conquered. I’ve done Grete’s Great Gallop three times now, and while this wasn’t my fastest time, I met my modest goal of finishing in less than 1:45.

I thought about my wife who cheered me on near the end, and how, in a demented end-of-half-marathon state of mind best described as “desperate and bordering on lunacy”, I responded to her clapping and encouragement by unwittingly making the “cut it” motion across my neck. I actually meant that I was physically drained and had nothing left; she thought I had totally lost it (which I had) and was telling her to stop cheering.

Note to self: next time, force a smile and better convey how much you appreciate your wife schlepping to Central Park from Brooklyn on a Saturday morning to cheer you on, even if you’re temporarily batshit insane at the 13.05-mile mark.

I thought about our celebration plans that evening in Williamsburg: dinner at Fornino Pizza and cold beers somewhere, anywhere, in the ‘hood. If there’s ever a time one can rip through an entire pizza and put down a few pints without feeling (too) guilty, it’s after running a half-marathon.

I also thought about Bélesta, a tiny village (population: 200) in France’s Midi-Pyrénées surrounded by rolling hills and craggy vineyards.

Bélesta? Why Bélesta?

An open spot on a short press trip to southern France popped up at the last minute the week before the race in Central Park. I of course couldn’t refuse, but was concerned that all the training I’d done to that point would be for naught. The week before the week of a half is a crucial one, when runners usually sandwich a long 12-mile run in between two or three shorter ones of 5 – 7 miles (at least that’s how I do it).

Instead of busting ass in Brooklyn like a good little half-marathoner, though, I’d now be in France on a wine-themed press trip, working through an itinerary that basically consisted of stuffing my face three times daily and washing it all down with glasses of wine. Not a bad thing, of course, nor a complaint or lament of a spoiled-silly travel writer–just a fact.

I packed my running shoes, swearing that no matter what I’d squeeze in at least one long-ish run, and I did, in the pre-dawn blackness and absolute silence that engulfed Balesta at 6am. The stars were the only thing lighting my way down the only road that ran threw the village and out into the countryside. All I could hear was the sound of my feet pounding the pavement and the rustle of leaves when a faint breeze blew through the vineyards lining both sides of the road.

I pictured myself on a world map, running on the outskirts of a small village most people have never heard of, in a country I first stepped foot in three days previously. I was bound for the turning-around point of Chateau de Caladroy, an idyllic 12th-century fortress-turned-winery located a few miles from “downtown” Bélesta and 5 kilometers from where some of the oldest remains of man, dating back some 80,000 years, had been found.

That lingering moment of zen, spurred by the thrill of place and time and travel, as well as by the therapeutic feeling of running well at an ungodly hour of the day, was broken by the snarling bark of two dogs I couldn’t see but could hear running towards the road. Towards me. Holy shit.

I didn’t know what else to do other than sprint as fast as I could when the dogs bounded into the road, barking even louder, and scampered after me. At that moment I thought about a lot of things: what it would feel like to punch and/or kick two attack dogs; whether or not I could outrun the dogs long enough for them to lose interest; what it would feel like to have one’s neck, leg, and/or arm torn open by two attack dogs.

I kept sprinting, and the dogs did lose interest and trot back to their lookout posts. I made it to the chateau, watched the sun rise over the Catalonia Pyrenees, and on the way back again sprinted until my lungs burned with fire and the dogs once again retreated.

Ill-timed week of wining and dining in France be damned, I met my goals at Grete’s Great Gallop despite just one short run in a crucial training week… and I’m fairly certain those terrifying wind sprints were the catalysts.

_{Bélesta Photos Copyright Brian Spencer}

As is common in the travel industry, the writer was provided with complimentary services for the purpose of review by Atout France and the Pyrenees Orientales Departmental Tourism Office. While it has not influenced this review, Perceptive Travel believes in full disclosure of all potential conflicts of interest.

History in a hardware store.

The back room of the Huntington, Hopkins and Company Hardware Store in Old Sacramento (California) has an exhibit of decorative hardware like door knobs, hinges and hooks.

Apparently, the 1876 Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia - aka The International Exhibition of Arts, Manufactures and Products of the Soil and Mine – sparked new public interest in decorative hardware.

People learned that even the most humdrum detail of their home could be crafted into something special.

I loved the look and feel of this decorated door knob; even though my current home is a pretty basic suburban box, a knob like this would elevate the humdrum, every day experience of opening the front door.

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Country music is a storytelling music. At times that telling of stories goes along with glitz and flash and high powered special effects and stage shows. At other times, the story is the focus. As it is Country Music Month in the United States, here is a look at three recordings very different though they are from one another, where stories of American life take center stage.

Connie Smith knows a bit about the high profile side of the country music business: she had a long string of hit albums in the 1960s and 1970s, creating a presence thatbrought admiration from musicians in rock, pop, country, and other genres. These artists are drawn to Smith’s thoughtful song selection, distinctive phrasing, and most of all the heart and hearfelt joy in her voice. Following her heart into gospel music and time spent raising her five children took Smith not exactly out of the spotlight, but to the side of it for some years. That’s given her time to develop her writing, and her voice still holds that hook of down home country back roads, and her song selection and writing are still as on point as ever. All these things are found in Smith’s album Long Line of Heartaches. It’s her first album in fifteen years, but it seems as though she just stepped of the stage a moment ago, so fresh sounding is her voice and material. The album, which was recorded at historic Studio B in Nashville, includes five cuts Smith wrote with her husband, fellow country star Marty Stuart, including the title track,. Another standout is written by another country star, That Makes Two of Us, from Patty Loveless. My Part of Forever and Blue Heartaches are two more especially worth the listening. It’s classic country done by a woman who is a master of that heartfelt sound.

You may know the music of Michael Martin Murphey: he’s the voice and the writer behind Wildfire. Two Step ‘Round the Christmas Tree, and Carolina in the Pines, to name just three of his pieces which have caught the imagination of listeners across genre and generation. In recent years, Murphey has begun combining his deep love and knowledge of the music and stories of the American West with his equally deep affection for bluegrass. Tall Grass & Cool Water is the latest result of what is turning out to be an intirguing fusion of ideas. The stories of Texas and places farther west fit in well with the fiddle, guitar, and banjo rhythms of bluegrass. Murphey’s way of bringing the two together gives each genre a fresh sound. On Tall Grass Cool Water there is a trilogy of songs concerning the members of the James Gang, outlaws of the west. There’s Texas Cowboy, a poem from the 1880s which true life Texas cowboy Murphey set to music, and the familiar western song Cool Water. The Railroad Corral is a song Murphey wrote about adventures on the trail that led up to getting cattle to the railroad trailhead, a journey every cowboy had to make, and that each made in a different way. Partner to the Wind is another of Murphey’s own songs, a look at the cowboy’s long time partnership with nature, and with loneliness.

The band Bearfoot has its origin in the west, too, even farther west than Texas: the original band members first got together at music camps in Alaska. After several line up changes and a move to base themselves in Nashville, the band builds on their earlier sound and takes it out father in their third album Bearfoot: American Story.. The song Feel Free, which lead singer Nora Jane Struthers wrote with Grammy winning country and folk musician Tim O’Brien, resonates with the finding of those quiet spaces, and the need to find them, in all of life’s circumstances. The Dust, which showcases Struthers’ fine voice and phrasing, is a tale from the history of the American frontier. When You’re Away is a folk jazz bluegrass flavored love song, while Kill That Rooster is a take on life’s exasperations that’s both funny and bittersweet. Guitar, fiddle, mandolin, bass, and percussion as well as fine lead and harmony singing from the five members of Bearfoot, along with a batch of bluegrass and folk tinged songs live up to the title of telling an American story.

Bluegrass, western music, and classic country: three different ways to celebrate the range of country music storytelling during country music month.

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I am on a bridge, crossing a wide river. The bridge is very high above the water, which is deep and running strong.  I must walk across the bridge, and as I do it becomes clear to me that the bridge is swaying. There are wide gaps between the planks that make my crossing difficult. People are falling.

I’ve had some version of this dream all of my life, usually in times of anxiety. (Armchair psychologists,  fire away — a few dream interpretation websites I’ve consulted seem to suggest that the bridge in the dream symbolizes some sort of a transition, the water, emotions. And the fact that the bridge is collapsing? A clear symbol that I’m all sorts of  f*d up.)

Perhaps this dream started due to those diabolical jiggly bridges you see in playgrounds. (They’re called “buckle bridges”, by the way,  an accurate moniker and one totally in need of a happy euphemism.)  But the dreams have continued because I occasionally confront this type of bridges in my waking life travels.  They haven’t been collapsing, but they are ominously shaky in a way that makes me feel the same.

The first time I was on my nightmare dream bridge was in Honduras, near a hot springs in Copan. I hesitated a long moment before walking across; it held just fine.  I was a little more primed for danger that day — we were going to sit in agua caliente, after all — but the Arroyo Grande Swinging Bridge came at me out of nowhere during a perfectly fine visit to California that was primarily dedicated to tasting wine.

Okay, so the bridge has actually been there since 1875, so it didn’t really sneak up on anyone, least of all me.  It was built to connect two sides of certain family’s land that was divided by a creek just under 200 feet across. The family’s name? Short.

So, for some reason, these Short people decided not to build a nice normal solid bridge, but instead built it swinging.   In 1912, the city of Arroyo Grande declared in a nuisance. In 1933, a “cross at your own risk” sign was erected. Years passed.  The bridge was vandalized, then it was damaged by a tree. In 1995, it was removed and restored, where it swings to this day.

I traversed this perfectly safe bridge without incident, but not before I read a sign that still haunts my mind.  Apparently when this swaying bridge was first constructed, it did not have sides! No sides!  Nothing to hang on to, in other words. Am I making myself clear? Nothing to keep a person from plunging down 40 fatal feet into that creek past those pretty marigolds, which, I hardly need to tell you, are the traditional flower of the dead in Latin America.

Yes, the bridge has sides today. Probably the marigolds weren’t there when it didn’t. But my subconscious doesn’t care.  It’s been busily incorporating all of this into the plot of my next bridge collapse nightmare.

Sweet dreams to me.