Big Skies and Possibilities

Book Launch Announcement: 'The Ayrshire Nestling' by Gerry Cambridge

By the time I left it, I had lived in Edinburgh for almost half my life. I first arrived there in 1999, aged seventeen, and, apart from a brief move to Glasgow, followed by ten months in Leicester (for love, of course) Edinburgh had always been home, a constant - though my address changed often - in an often-precarious life. Edinburgh and poetry. Poetry and Edinburgh. Two things I knew were The Plan for myself, while I had little clue on much else.

I had hoped to live there for the rest of my days. Sometimes, I would idly imagine becoming one of the barely-remarked-upon eccentric characters of the city; that old poet lady who had some local - and a bit of national - success, and who had subsequently grown old in fuschia lipstick and purple raincoats, to be found regularly cackling at the posh students as she walked her cats on the Meadows. I’d ponder that such a life would need to involve some kind of marry-rich-divorce-rich situation, because there was little chance, given what I’d chosen to do with my life, for me to afford a mortgage on so much as a letter-box.

Poetry and Edinburgh, though. If nothing else - riches, kids, stability, marriage, any kind of relationship, in fact - that was it. That was the root. Poetry. Poets. Edinburgh.

I won’t berate myself further for my idealism than I already have ...

Returning to the big skies and possibilities of Ayrshire, aged thirty-seven, while not initially much of a choice, has now become something I feel was wholly necessary. A fresh start, a reset really, a chance to work out what becomes the root now that the two things I had so wanted - a little unambitiously, at times, I think - are no longer possible.

My splendid pal, the poet and editor, Gerry Cambridge, also hails from these parts, and lives just up the tracks from me in Irvine, North Ayrshire. Regular readers will know that Gerry founded and edits the poetry journal The Dark Horse, who commissioned and published my essay ‘Anatomy of a Hounding’ in 2020. This showed a courage - given the appallingly high costs paid by anyone who dares to wade into the gender wars - that led arts journalist Neil Cooper to describe The Dark Horse as “one of the few independent publications in Scotland that appears to have a spine.”

Gerry and I knew each other only as friendly acquaintances back in 2020 when the essay was commissioned, but my own hounding-in-poetry was not the first he had witnessed. The year earlier, he had already shown a willingness to confront the fractiousness that has come to characterise Scottish poetry head-on, when he commissioned poet Rob Mackenzie to respond to the accusations of ‘nakedly fascist imagery’ that reviewer Dave Coates had asserted ran throughout the poetry of Toby Martinez de las Rivas’s poems in his Forward Prize award-nominated collection Black Sun. The casualness of these smears; the reputational damage done to any poet lamped with them; the sheer ignorance of those piling on; the explosive divisions they have caused - these cannot be overstated. It is worth revisiting Rob’s essay, ‘Poetry and Fascism’, written in response to the Martinez incident, which I remember thinking at the time really should put to bed all of the nonsense coming from some quarters. Again, I will not berate myself too much for my idealism…

As anyone who has been hounded knows, your hounding ripples out. It pains me that Gerry, a man of high-integrity, generosity, much wit, sincere passion and commitment to the craft of poetry, has been smeared in turn by having ‘associated’ with me.

Plus, the poor man has ended up having to be in regular contact with this gobby Ayrshire performance poet, because a) my mother wants to build him a statue for having saved me from the pits of despair, and b) I had no sodding pals when I moved back here. Not content with having set those pesky wee houndlings after him by insisting that lesbians do not deserve thumped by activists at Pride marches, I’ve also subjected the man to more afternoon rantings than I can count now, while benefitting enormously from how he usually responds to such matters: with an admirable calm and a trademark peal of infectious laughter.

How on earth to repay Gerry’s generosity? Well, to continue his ongoing traumas at associating with me, I’ve forced him to have a book launch. Like all humble giants who deserve far more shiny baubles of applause and recognition than such people often receive, he loathes self-promotion. But I think his book’s bloody brilliant and said I would organise a wee soiree to launch it into the world. And you’re all invited!

The Ayrshire Nestling, which I was delighted to be a first-reader of, is a compelling memoir telling the story of ‘Jed’ (Gerry) in his teenage years growing up in a caravan in Irvine. Discovering a love and fascination for birds (of both kinds, yes) it is a delicate exploration of the tensions between a burgeoning male desire, and the shame of such matters, often. There are laugh-out-loud, squirmy moments, such as when Jed convinces himself, to the point of visiting the doctor, that he has caught a terminal STD through mere innocent fumblings; also, intricately described moments of self-discipline, whether through waiting for the perfect chance of a photograph of the local bird-life, or detailing the development of an eating disorder.

At a time when there is much talk but little action over the importance of men writing about, and understanding, their attitudes towards women, femininity, and their own desires, The Ayrshire Nestling offers a timely reflection. How are good men made? It is not through pretending such desires are absent. I hope Gerry will not mind me saying that it was with a little trepidation that he asked his new, radical feminist pal to read this account; another male reader had suggested that some offence may be taken. None was. Throughout an often difficult experience of growing up working-class, impoverished at times, in the sectarianism of West Coast Scotland, Jed works relentlessly to understand the connections he is making between the delicate, fragile, birds eggs that he now regrets collecting, and his desire and shame as he reveres the beauty of his female classmates. It is a work of honesty and much beauty, this book, and I highly recommend it - with, of course, the caveat that I too want to build the man a statue.

The book launch is at The Saltire Society on Thursday 19th September and books will be available exclusively at the event (please bring cash!) or direct from the author afterwards. Buy tickets here.

While I had falsely assumed that the month before my own book launch would be quiet (how many times can I not berate myself for my naivety and idealism in one post, people) and that I would have had more time to shout about this wonderful man and his wonderful book from the rooftops, if you are someone who values - as I imagine most readers of this Substack are - those quiet and humble defenders of freedom of expression, I encourage you to nab a ticket, and come along. He may not be getting that statue any time soon, but he fully deserves everyone’s rapturous applause. xx