A Graduation with Distinction

The main reason we came to Aberdeen was for Glen to study at the University. With the hopes of an academic career ahead, Glen began postgraduate studies in Church history, somehow hoping that he would be able to claw his way through to a pass in his MTh degree in one year.
On the 24th November the culmination of a year's work arrived with the official graduation ceremony held at the world's second largest granite structure, Marischal College in Aberdeen.
Nervously arriving with other uncertain students holding plastic bags with the hired gowns, absurd looking but nonetheless distinguished graduate hats, and superhero capes colour coded to signify the level and discipline of their degree. Without rehersals such an event has the potential for ignomious disaster as most of us were somewhat in a daze, wandering around in a surreal environment of latin incantations and stained glass windows, overseen by old men in similar or even more bizarre hats. However other, trained men in equally strange but differently adorned costumes drilled all the gradutes gathered in an ante-room in the etiquette of graduating from a 500 year old University without making an ass of one's self. We were lined up in order of when we would receive our awards, and when the time was right, we were marched into the great hall, past all the proud families and friends already seated, to our own seats at the front left side of the cavernous arched hall. Our seats were narrow and we were jammed in like passengers on an easyjet flight, though without the mad rush to find the best seats. Our seating order matched our line -up. After what seemed like too little time, the procession of academics entered the chamber, ushered by the singing of an old latin school song that echoed majestically in the illustrous space:

Gaudeamus igitur, juvenes dum sumus
Post jucundam juventutem,
Post molestam senectutem,
Nos habebit humus, nos habebit humus.

Vita nostra brevis est, brevi finietur
Vita nostra brevis est, brevi finietur

The translation of this ancient song goes something like this:

Let us rejoice, therefore while we are young;
After the Joys of Youth,
After the Troubles of old age,
The Earth will have us.

Our Life is short, it will shortly be finished,
Our Life is short, it will shortly be finished.

Waahaaayyy!!!

Latin was spoken probably more than English, and it was the main language of the actual ceremony. Each time a new degree catagory was being announced, the professor of each discipline in turn would ask the permission of the Chancellor (with a tip of their hat to acknowledge the eminence of the post) and the assembled Doctors to present the candidates for conferral of their degrees. This was all done in Latin and at this point no English was spoken at all. The first in line for each degree was called to stand in front of the Chancellor, who then recited a Latin blessing and tapped the head of the candidate with a morterboard graduate hat (the graduand would not wear their own hat until the exit procession). At this point the sacrist, who had drilled us all in how to not mess our parts up, lassooed our heads with the hood, thus signifying our passage to graduate. The newly tapped, hooded and at this point utterly dazed graduate was prodded down the steps to receive their parchment and return to their seat. Each one following was given the same treatment, except that the Chancellor, when tapping the head would repeat "et tu" (and you) for all the others in the same degree.
After the 100 or more students were introduced, tapped and hooded, the ceremony drew to its close and the esteemed lords of the University solemnly marched out, soon to be followed by grinning, now fully costumed graduates.
Amidst this happy throng I marched out into the sunlight.

Where chaos immediatly descended.

For reasons known only to the press office of the University, the story of our family travels on the Doulos was passed onto the local newspapers, which for an equally bizarre reason found them to be greatly newsworthy. I soon found myself having to scedule times for reporters and photographers around the hugs and back slaps from family and friends. When asked to pose for one newspaper, I found myself smiling inanely into the flashes of half a dozen cameras, about half of which were aimed by people I had never seen before in my life. Papparazzi - looking for me? After the surreal ancient ceremony of my graduation, I faced the madness of being interviewed and photographed for the press. Natasha was coaxed into peeping around columns while Dad smiled in the fore ground, Mum was gathered together so a family shot could be taken (Callum, in his usual sense of individualism, refused to smile, or even look at the cameraman). After about half an hour of standing in the wind, and trying to keep the hood in a dignified position, the reporters left and we could gather our family and friends for the trek to the restaurant we had booked for lunch.
I kept my academic costume on for the trek through the city, alternately looking like a lawyer and then, when the wind blew, like Batman. Billowing through the city we arrived at the Hungarian restaurant where, upon entry, my friend and fellow graduate Jarod and I were politely applauded by the dining patrons (Aberdeen is like that - nice).
At the end of a rather short Winter's day, with a full moon rising in the early twilight, the family said goodbye to the friends who came to share the day with us, and we trudged to the car and home.... to sleep.

PS. the Monday Newspapers put my story on page three, a spot traditionally associated with topless girls in the more tabloid type rags. Of course Aberdeen's respectable Press and Journal puts more sophisticated things there, hence me.

A lovely day for some brutal hacking.

The traditional medieval re-enactment day is one of those activities that I have always wanted to experience. However any such experience in Australia is somewhat marred by the gum tree surrounds, the stifling heat and the cries of "en guarde mate!" However to go to a medieval re-enactment at a real 12th century castle, in sunny but cool weather and accosted with accents more authentic than Mel Gibson's Braveheart makes what might be seen by some as Monty Python-esque actually loads of fun.

With the arrival of Spring all the hibernating castles (disappointingly described in our previous post) re-opened their gates to us and our National Trust membership cards. At long last we could flaunt our free entry privileges to the various aristocratic monuments in the Aberdeen area without the annoyance of being told to go away and come back when the weather was nicer. Now at last it was our time to boldly face the past and buy some souvenirs. Thus one sunny Saturday we were off to the castles once more. Complete with stinking peasants, armoured knights, damsels in (and out of) distress and one persistently obnoxious leper, the Drum Castle medieval day was an experienced not to be missed for the Doris household.
Upon arrival, the family scattered to the various tents and pavilions inhabited by hose-legged men with various felt head coverings or long-dressed ladies, each offering morsels of authentically cooked food or bits of war kit to put on. Natasha and I immediately stood around the sword smith's tent looking for opportunities to swing a variety of nasty looking weapons around, while Callum decided that his fun would be had by flirting with the young damsels at the ring toss game. Grace managed (of course) to run into people that she knew from work/Church and spent much of the day trying to get me away from the weapons in order to show my face and be sociable.

Later in the afternoon the mock battles began, ostensibly over some slight to the "Lord of the Castle" by a knight in the employ of some enemy baron. After being shoved before the "Lord's" court and having the appropriate epithets of "murderous dog" hurled at him, the guilty knight was tried and sentenced to death, only to have the trial interrupted by a tall armoured man sounding rather English charging in with his band of "knights" to challenge the verdict by right of combat. Of course all agreed and proceeded to the roped off battle ground shouting various iterations of the you-will-die-like-dogs" curse. In the ensuing swordfights (the winners of which had obviously been agreed upon ahead of time) the English baron and his men were defeated by the local lord (this is Scotland after all) and all invaders were mock dispatched with blade against chain-mailed throat.
While all this was going on, I noticed a lone archer shooting arrows at wheat sack targets, and thinking that he was waiting to demonstrate his long-bow to eager fans of all things medieval I meandered up to see him. Little did I know that this dentally challenged re-creationist from Dundee was quite happy to just twang away on his own, his council flat not allowing him opportunities to shoot arrows much. After giving me the rundown on longbow archery he admitted that he mostly came to these events because it was the only chance he got to practice. Amidst his garb was a great looking helmet that he admitted was an old bomb shelter warden's that he rubbed the paint off of. While his colleagues with the swords scoffed at this kind of costume shortcut, the helmet looked good enough to fool the unwary and only cost "a fiver" to boot.

After a day of belligerent battles, trying on various helmets, the purchase of a few garden plants and getting Natasha put into "the stocks" for the crime of not making her bed, we finally trudged wearily home with cardboard shields and half empty water bottles safely packed away. It is days like this that make us sigh and think, "gee we love Scotland".

What's all this white stuff?

It snowed this morning, just lightly but enough to remind me that Scotland is not like Australia. I had long had suspicions that snow was a fictitious creation of northern hemisphere media magnates designed to make those of us from tropical climates feel a little bit inferior. I had never seen it for real in all my 36 years of life, except for one trip to a ski resort in Lebanon, but that doesn't quite count as I didn't actually see the snow falling - it was just there looking suspiciously like the stuff you dig out of a freezer when doing a long overdue defrost. During our family's travels around the world I chased it with a kind of desperation, but always to narrow disappointment. Having heard it was snowing in the mountains around some village in Italy, I drove there only to find shrugged shoulders and puddles of water everywhere. "If you had been here a few hours ago, this place was covered in snow, but I'm afraid it melted." It was like Lois Lane bursting in expecting to find Superman and instead seeing Clark Kent hurriedly buttoning his shirt and giving silly excuses for the ‘Man of Steel's’ absence; "He just left Lois, but he told me to tell you that he will see you again, another day." This was the exact relationship between me and snow.

Aberdeen was my chance to verify the existence once for all of this illusive Christmas Card filler but again it seemed my close encounter was to be thwarted by, would you believe it, the warmest winter on record! I was about to relegate this phenomena to the 'Loch Ness Monster' file when, low and behold, the Doris family woke up one chilly February morning to a blanket of white over the landscape. Could it be real? Was this really this thing called snow? Before the kids could even get out of bed, I ran out into the front yard and slipped and skidded around while grabbing handfuls of the fluffy white cold stuff. Much to the disgust of Natasha and Callum, this mild snowfall was not enough to cancel school and so they puttered off to their day prison while mummy went to work. This left daddy to play in the snow. Having felt a slight tinge of responsibility, my dream of building a snow man would have to wait as I had to go to uni for some classes. The snowfall was quote heavy and all parts of the city and the university were covered. Sacred statues were humorously defaced with clumps of white plastic surgery, while somber Scots trudged grumbling to their pedestrian destinations, occasionally scowling at young boys throwing snowballs around on their way to school.
At 3:30pm when both kids had arrived home, we ran out to the back yard to fulfill my lifelong ambition - build a snow man. There was still enough snow left at the end of the day to roll into the large balls required to construct the similitude of life we desired. Interspersed with impromptu life fire target practice, the somewhat short and stumpy new member of the Doris family began to arise from the earth. As there wasn't enough raw materials to make him very tall, we left him hobbit sized while we raced off to find the obligatory woolen hat and scarf. With a carrot nose and twigs for arms, our leg-challenged friend was now ready for photographic memorial. Natasha was very excited to pose for the camera with her new sibling, but Callum, who had decided to make a rival snowman in another corner of the back yard, refused to participate. His own meager attempts looked more like a small ant nest, but it was all his and my son's loyalty could not be shaken. At the end of the day our white back yard was a desecration of footprints and bare patches, while our house stoically withstood the hits from misthrown snowballs. When darkness came, we removed the scarf and hat from our unnamed compatriot and departed for warmth and dinner happy that snow was no longer the Bigfoot of the Doris family but a cherished experience.
That was the only snow day we had all winter. While Southern England experienced the worst snow season in decades, Northern Scotland received nothing of it. Gradually the weather warmed and Spring flowers sprang up on the lawn. Winter was over without the horrible cold winds or blizzards we were warned about. The kids tell me its snowing again, but probably not for long as we have already had sunshine, rain and hail all in a matter of hours today. Of course everyone is blaming global warming for this mild winter, but they would probably say the same thing for almost any weather pattern that occurs.
Alas we will probably have to wait another year for snow now.

If it ever comes to Aberdeen.

Some parts of our "hood": Aberdeen University

In an effort to show some of the places around which we hang quite regularly here in Scotland it would be appropriate to show something of the place for which we have come to settle here, Aberdeen University. It is not only the place where I study, but as of November 2006 it is also where Grace works. So here are some pictures of the coolest University I have ever attended.

Due to my newly aquired knowledge of old Latin I can now read the inscription over this decorated archway, which says either "Fear of the Lord is the Beginning of wisdom", or "Codfish emulsify existential beachtowel".


This is the heart of the University, the old Kings College building. Built around the time of the University's founding in 1495 it is one of the really cool places to show to people on postcards of the place.
Unfortunately, the classes I have had in it were in the crappiest rooms on the campus.
Postgraduates always get bumped into whatever room is available.




Here is the main gateway to old Kings College building. Looks like Hogwarts School of Magic or something, especially when floodlit under a full moon at night.
An interesting side note on this regard, the author of the Harry Potter books was awarded an honorary doctorate at Aberdeen.




This is the vine encrusted interior of old Kings College, in the quadrangle. There is an old well in the centre into which desperate undergrads drop coins as an offering to the god of late-submitted essays in order to secure a grade somewhere above fail.







This is the "Powis Gate".
I have yet to learn where the actual "powis" is.













This building (left) is a few hundred years old, but due economies of age scale here in Scotland it is referred to as "New Kings College".

As a side note Aberdeen is divided into Old Aberdeen and New Aberdeen. While the origin of Old Aberdeen is uncertain, New Aberdeen was only founded recently by a bunch of upstarts in the the 12th Century.




This main quadrangle next to both Old and New Kings Colleges is the perfect spot to sit, relax and ponder life's conundrums, all while getting pooped on by seagulls.









This is the Old Brewery where many classes are held. This example of University building is perfectly fitted to the fine scholarly tradition here in Scotland. Of course any alcohol previously made here was for resec... ...raserch....resatrch...seserch... learning purposes only.




The small clutch of low cottages outside the boundary down the road is not a part of the unversity, but it is still a quaint structure somehow connected with it.
This used to be a hospital for women but is now accomodation for..... well somebody lives here.

I think.

Window on the world of .... well.... us.

Some of our friends have asked us what is it like in Aberdeen. Well apart from telling them "fine", we thought we would give you and idea based on some pictures, starting with our home environment and then branching off onto other things later on.
Firstly, this is the house we live in. I guess it looks very ordinary, but it is home sweet home to us.
Our car is a Vauxhall Vectra 2000 model. To Australians, that is a Holden with a different badge. We got it very cheap from a Christian car dealer.
Oh and BTW our house is one building divided in 2 - we only live in the part with the 2 windows at the top and bottom.




As we move inside the house we have one really big room that serves as Dining, lounge and my study.

Here is the lounge room. Ye Olde Ikea chairs make up the mainstay of our furniture (on a budget, you know).
Grace finally got her piano, and it is electric so it makes also really cool sounds.

The tripod thing next to the TV is the board game solitare that we got in Madagascar by trading a pair of boots for it.



To the left of the sofa is my little corner of the world, my desk. Despite the fact that it looks like solid wood, it is actually is chip board veneer and was assembled with the help of an ex-Douloi friend, David Williams (took us most of the day).
While it looks like I have covered it in souvenir junk, I still have room to clutter the surface with paper and books.

Don't be fooled by the inane smile, I am a graduate student and an intelligent person. At least that's what I tell myself.


Moving around in a circle to the left of my desk, you can see our dining area. (Yes, those are swords hanging up.) A large portion of the junk collected on our world travels resides on the shelves you can see behind the table.



If you look out the window you will see ......




Our back yard. The tennis pole game (a modern replica of the 70's "in thing" to have) is new. I always wanted one. Now I am fulfilled.

The shed is not ours, unfortunately.




If we proceed upstairs we have 3 bedrooms and a bathroom. Not particularly interesting places to look at but I will give you one image of ....


Our master bedroom.

The meditative figure on the bed is Grace. She is pondering the conundrum of what her husband is doing taking pictures of our bedroom.

The yellow curtains are printed with latin inscriptions, and while I am learning latin at uni, I still can't read them.

The world map on the wall reminds us of where we are now. We sometimes forget.


This is our home. Stay tuned for more exciting episodes when we will show you other parts of our hood.

Wrong time of the year for Castles.

Part of the romance of living in Europe, and particularly Scotland is to vist those wonders of the middle ages (and the fakes of the later centuries) castles. When we holidayed in Australia years ago a tourist brochure advertised what was referred to as the Bli Bli Castle. Being a lover of all things medieval, I thought this to be the ideal place to take the family to. The Bli Bli Castle was a cinderblock mockery of my hopes. Its crenellated walls were a cheap facade and extended only as far as the drive-by viewer could glimpse; the remainder was a corrugated iron roofed wooden shed.
When we came to live in Scotland my dream was to visit real castles, with histories going back further than someone's entrepreneurial uncle. Aberdeenshire is unique in that it has the highest concentration of castles in all of Scotland, and we were salivating at the thought of being able to drive a half hour down the road to see the fortified stone homes of noble knights and lords. Being a clever man (?) I bought a family membership to the National Trust for Scotland, the keepers of most of the castles in the region. This one off price enabled our whole family to visit each and every castle on their lists free of charge. As the normal admission price for these tourist attractions are quite expensive, we would only have to visit 2 of the properties to get our money's worth. An easy deal, or so we thought.
Another of the strange things about Scotland, and probably northern Europe in general, is that when the seasons drift toward winter, things close down. Among these things that close from the end of September onward are the castles. And these magnificent monoliths, which survived the bitterest winters for hundreds of years, also close at seemingly random days, the frequency of which can only be ascertained by actually rocking up and then being denied entrance, usually by a rather bewildered gardener who tries to patiently explain that it should be obvious that the attraction should be shut as it is the 8th day of the Autumnal equinox falling on a day beginning with a letter in the first half of the alphabet. "If you just come back tomorrow we will be open all day."
Such was a certain Friday when the Doris family packed up the car to visit a rather picturesque stronghold (proudly awarded 5 stars in the National Trust Guide Book). It was a beautiful sunny day, the sky was blue, the weather was warm and the kids were not complaining throughout the 20 minute countryside drive. We arrived with a few cars in the car park (usually a good sign that you have not chosen to visit on a day when the whole region is being used by the Ministry of Defense for live fire training exercises) and merrily walked down the path to the castle gate, waving at other families eating picnic lunches and enjoying the scenery. The castles gate, while wide open, was curiously devoid of life and we were not sure if we had come to the right entrance. We wondered in looking for the ticket office and ran into an example of the above mentioned gardener. Of course the property is closed, if we would like to come back tomorrow, blah, blah, blah. Disappointed, we sauntered back to the car to check the guide book for another castle in the area we would go to. As luck would have it, our second choice for the day was just a 10 minute drive away (eat your heart out all those making whole day trips to see the Bli Bli Castle). We made the quick journey and were excited to see even more cars and people meandering down to the main entrance...... to stop and peer at a makeshift sign telling all and sundry that, due to changes in the opening times, this fortification was also closed today. We began to have that nagging suspicion that our National Trust subscription was the latest in a series of Nigerian money scams designed to make you buy tickets to places that had really no intention of letting you in. We sat in the manicured grounds and gazed wistfully at the walls and windows, the inside of which we would not see today. Fortunately we were not far from the home of our ex-Doulos friend Rebecca and so we phoned and told her we would be coming to drown our sorrows in coffee and chocolate biscuits. The kids meanwhile decided to gather sticks and stones from the gardens and pile them up onto the lawn, an act of boredom relief that I would normally have discouraged except that I now saw it as my quiet but alas, impotent protest at the injustice of the Scottish tourist industry in general. It was the end of September and most of the historic properties our subscription had paid for would be closed after today for the next 5 months, until warmer weather brought them out of their imposed hibernation. It was now the wrong time of the year for castles and our failed expedition to see at least one of them with the kids could not be corrected till Easter next year.

While this particular saga denied our children the real castle experience, the adults of the Doris family did manage to get to some castles earlier on, while the kids were in school. The pictures on this page are testimony to our earlier success. Enjoy.

Welcome to our blog site.

We thought it might be nice to put together a blog of the Doris family's adventures in Aberdeen as we begin our new life in Scotland. Here we can post pictures and things to give an idea of what we are doing as we commence school, studies and jobs in the far north of the country of my birth.

We will edit this every now and again to post updates, thoughts and pictures of the highlights of where we are and what we are doing.