Just a Wee Blether…

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About my yearning for a Scottish brew

Please don’t take this the wrong way. But there are times when I’m sitting here sipping a cool beer in the November sunshine and think to myself, “I could murder a Sheepshagger”.

Before you get the wrong idea, I don’t mean an Aberdeen football fan – although the thought crossed my mind more than once in the 17 years I spent in that fair city.

Nor does it have anything to do with certain members of Scotland’s rural population – there’s no room for smut or insinuation in this blog.

If, however, you are a fan of the amber brew produced in Scotland, you will know exactly what I mean. Sheepshagger’s Scotch Ale – marketed as ‘the best beer baa none’ – is one of the best-selling brands of the Cairngorm brewery in Aviemore.

You can’t buy it over here. Hardly any Scottish beers make it on to the American market. I once found a couple of bottles of Fraoch heather ale, made by Williams Brothers of Alloa. It was a pleasant surprise but it was a one-off.

Wildcat

Instead I am faced with groaning shelves filled with home-made American beers. We Scots have traditionally looked down our noses at the beer made by our US cousins. We referred to it by a particular four-letter, one syllable word beginning with ‘p’ and ending with ‘s’.

To be absolutely fair, things have changed for the better. Just like Scotland, the micro-brewing industry in the USA has erupted and there are some very decent beers to be had. But I have to say, objectively, that Scotland does it far better.

Some of the beer produced in Scotland is excellent, to be savoured almost like a good malt whisky. It’s a far cry from when I was growing up. Then it was a pint of lager or a pint of heavy and you took whatever rubbish the bar had on tap.

I’m not one of these snobbish beer aficionados. In fact I don’t even drink that much of it nowadays.  I can’t tell the apparently crucial difference between craft beer and cask beer. All I know is that, if I like the taste, then I like the beer.

So what is it that makes Scottish beers so good? Is it the water, the soil, the crops, the fruit, or a combination of everything?

I don’t know but as a matter of interest here are the descriptions of a couple of the beers I would class as favourites.

Maverick, made by Loch Fyne Brewery – a reddish copper ale with an aroma of mixed fruit and caramel malts. Taste is of caramel and fruity malts with a well hopped flavor creating a wonderfully well balanced beer.

Wildcat, by Cairngorm Brewery – A smooth deep amber coloured ale with a complex malt, fruit and hop flavour. Strong and distinctive like the powerful sleek Scottish wildcat it is named after.

Believe it or not there is a beer made in Arizona called Kilt Lifter. It’s marketed as a Scottish style ale. It is actually pretty good and, as you can imagine, the name appeals to the female beer drinking public.

But it’s just not the same. And purely in the name of research of course, I feel compelled to try as many of these fancy American beers as I can.

Nothing though can beat a good glass of Sheepshagger’s – or Wildcat – or Maverick  – or Fraoch heather ale.

So if anyone reading this is coming to America and fancies stashing some in their suitcase I’ll happily provide you with an address where it will be gratefully received.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About the secrets of our ancestry

If there’s one thing Americans love, it’s finding out where they came from, discovering their family history. In a country where everyone – with the exception of the Native Americans – is descended from immigrants, it is natural to want to know where your ancestors started off. I have met many people of Scottish descent since I came here – and a ton of wannabe Scots.

Genealogy is a fascinating subject if done properly and carefully. The key is to dig up the real life stories behind the names of ancestors that are scrawled on marriage licenses, census documents and death certificates. Behind those faded names lie a million gripping tales.

But a word of warning. Do not expect royalty or aristocracy to show up in your bloodline. Genealogy is not for the squeamish. Expect eye-popping scandal to come jumping off the pages at you. Believe me it is far more fun.

For the past few years I have been engrossed in genealogy and have put together fairly comprehensive family trees for myself and my wife. It has been a bit sad, a bit shocking but most of all it’s been an eye-opener.

In terms of sadness and tragedy nothing touches the story of my maternal grandfather’s three oldest siblings. My great-grandparents Alexander Macdonald, a farmer, and his wife Ann Mackintosh lived in the remote farming community of Bohenie in Lochaber – look on Google Maps and you’ll see how remote it is.

In 1889 they had two daughters and a son, aged 14, 13 and 10. Within a six day period that December all three children fell victim to a diphtheria epidemic. Apparently their three coffins were laid side by side in the living room of the old stone farmhouse where they lived.

Scotland dominates my family line, but I discovered an unexpected Irish influence that my immediate family knew nothing about – and what a disreputable bunch they turned out to be.

A great-great-great grandfather on my mother’s side, Peter McSorley, came to Scotland from County Tyrone in the 1820s when the potato crop was failing. Peter was a mason by trade and worked as a canal builder.

He died in April 1860 while working near Fort William. I then dug out his death certificate. It read that he had died on the “high road” between Blaich and Duisky on the shores of Loch Eil and that the cause of death had been “exposure to cold and wet while intoxicated”. (pictured is a recent photo of the road where he was found)

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So poor Peter didn’t make it home that night, but worse was to come. His son, William McSorley (who later changed his surname to Sorley) was my great great grandfather. He was living in Ratho, Midlothian, when he died aged 45.

This time the death certificate from 1882 revealed he had suffered from pneumonia for 13 days and “delirium tremens” for three days. In other words he died an alcoholic.

Am I ashamed of any of this? Absolutely not. What it proves is that our ancestors were real people, not just names on old documents, and lived life to the full.

So that side of my Irish ancestry produced some juicy scandal. But another Irish discovery turned up an incredible coincidence.

My paternal grandfather came to Scotland from Downpatrick, County Down. My wife grew up in Pennsylvania as part of a family descended from European countries including Germany, Lithuania and England.

But way back in the 1700s my wife has a 5xgreat grandfather by the name of John Crickard. His son Michael left home in Ireland and moved to Staunton, Virginia – John may have gone with him. And where did they live in Ireland before sailing the Atlantic? Downpatrick, County Down. It’s a small world.

The secret is not to accept your ancestors’ names at face value but to dig deep. I have uncovered many other incredible stories that illuminate our family trees and I’ve only scratched the surface. Resources are abundant – family members, libraries, Internet – but just be prepared for the unexpected.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Sleeping Through the Earthquake

There was nothing unusual for me about the night of January 15, 1968. I was always a sound sleeper and I had gone to bed around 9pm, slept like a log and woke up the next morning in time for primary school.

It must have been a bit windy outside when I closed my eyes and dozed off, I honestly can’t remember. What I do remember quite clearly is my mother saying to me in the morning, “I can’t believe you slept through all that”.

She and my father had been up all night, terrified as she put it “that the house was going to blow down”. We lived in an old house – long since demolished – that had a flat roof where the washing used to be hung out. All the poles had been blown into nearby streets.

What I had slept through is now referred to as the January gale or the January storm. It started in Bermuda, moved across the Atlantic, battered the Clyde Coast and hit Glasgow with an absolute vengeance. The winds reached 140mph across the Central Belt.

A total of 20 people died in Scotland that night. In Glasgow – 30 miles from my home town of Largs – 300 houses were destroyed and 70,000 homes were damaged. Four people died when a six-ton chimney stack crashed through the roof of a tenement in Partick.

Largs officially escaped the worst of the storm but I remember walking to school that day and seeing debris all over the streets. I have a clear memory of turning into the town’s Boyd Street where a lamp standard had been bent double in the wind and was only inches from crashing through the roof of a parked car.

There were many bleary-eyed people who had had little or no sleep – but it hadn’t bothered me in the slightest. I had slept through the great January gale, one of Scotland’s worst natural disasters, as if it had never happened.

I didn’t think I could ever top that. But this week I went one better, I took “sleeping soundly” to a whole new level – this week I slept through an earthquake.

It wasn’t huge but it wasn’t tiny either – 4.1 on the Richter scale. The epicentre was 70 miles away from us in a one-horse old town called Black Canyon City.

I was out for the count but my wife was having trouble getting to sleep. She got up, left me snoozing, went through to the next room and lay down on the sofa – and the earth moved for her.

She described a sensation as though someone had been very subtly shaking the sofa, like a gentle wobble. It happened at around 11.30pm then again a few seconds later. She took a mental note of the time and when we were listening to the radio news in the morning, sure enough, it was the lead item.

Nearer the epicentre it was a lot more noticeable. A friend of mine said he thought a train was rushing past his house; people were reported to have felt their homes shaking and seeing the lights in their living room moving.

One man told the newspaper that he had heard the noise and gone outside to fetch his gun. Well this is America after all. When an unexplained and unexpected natural phenomenon occurs, the natural instinct is to shoot the damn thing.

Arizona doesn’t get many earthquakes and certainly nothing as powerful as neighbouring California. But when they do happen they are alarming. Not that I have first-hand knowledge of course, this is just hearsay on my part.

Having lived all my life in Scotland I have never experienced an earthquake. I hope I’m awake the next time one comes along in Arizona – or at least that it’s loud enough to wake me up.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Halloween American-style

My new American friends have learned two more things from me in the past couple of weeks. Not that I’m on some sort of educational mission over here but I was asked the same questions umpteen times.

First of all, yes, we do celebrate Halloween in Scotland, we have for as long as I can remember, it’s a centuries-old tradition and an important date in the calendar. In fact, refer to Wikipedia and you will discover that the word Hallowe’en derives from an old Scots term for All Hallows’ Eve.

The festival was largely unheard of in America until mass Scottish and Irish immigration in the 19th century and celebrations started to get popular in the early 20th century.

So the answer to ‘do you celebrate Halloween in Scotland?’ was lesson one. The second came when I dressed up as the children’s character Where’s Wally (or Waldo as they say here) and was asked several times ‘do you have Where’s Waldo in Scotland?’

Yes of course, I answered, politely as ever. And if you turn to the self-same Wikipedia you’ll find out that Wally – not Waldo – was the brainchild of an illustrator from England called Martin Handford.

There was a fair amount of eyebrow-raising when people realised that a festival and a children’s character they thought were quintessentially American were actually nothing of the sort.

But even though America was late on the Halloween scene, they have more than caught up with the Celts who started it off. It’s fair to say that Americans go crazy for Halloween. The belief that everything is ‘bigger’ in the US is true in many cases, and Halloween is no exception.

This week I’ve mixed with a very cool-looking Pharrell Williams; possibly the world’s first transgender deer (ok, a doe complete with a set of antlers); Ursula from The Little Mermaid; the Jolly Green Giant; a brown bear; a hopelessly unfashionable 80s rocker; and a very excited little pumpkin.

After discarding my Where’s Wally costume, I morphed into a Scotsman. Tricky I know. But a Jimmy hat and some face paint and I looked just like Mel Gibson.

The Halloween build-up here lasted for several weeks. Children were taken on pumpkin hayrides, pop-up shops appeared selling zombie masks and all sorts of scary costumes and people of a certain vintage reminisced about the Halloween series of horror films from the 1970s – and how they weren’t really frightened when they watched them first time round.

Some folk went completely over the top of course. A neighbour a few doors down erected a giant screen on the side of his house and broadcast Star Wars movies all evening. He dressed as one of the X-Wing Fighter Pilots, handed out strips of wookie beef jerky to visiting children, and even had several rows of seats in his front garden where people could watch the films.

The big difference between the US and Scotland is the tradition here known as ‘trick or treating’. In Scotland we go out guising – from the word disguise – and I always remember having to earn my penny dainties, monkey nuts, and maybe a few coppers. If you didn’t have a song to sing or a poem to recite then you weren’t very well-received.

In America it’s all over in seconds. Trick or treat, the bag is held out, sweeties (candy) are thrown in and off they go. I far preferred the fun, and the satisfaction, of having to work for the treats.

But Halloween American style has been a lot of fun – and now a handful of folks in a corner of Arizona know that, like most things of any importance, it started in Scotland.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Galloway vs Trump – Bring It On

A familiar face popped up in the American media this week.  At least it was familiar to me, as it will be to anyone who has sat in a Scottish newsroom in recent years.  The gentleman involved was at the heart of one of the most memorable – not to mention embarrassing and downright hilarious – news vignettes of the century.

This week’s news was tinged with sadness. It was reported that Senator Norm Coleman from Minnesota had been diagnosed with throat cancer. On a brighter note, his doctor said it had been caught early and a full recovery is likely.

Who is Norm Coleman, I hear you ask? Well cast your mind back to 2005, when the US was in the grip of Iraq War hysteria. A Washington Senate Committee – headed by Coleman – was set up to investigate individuals believed to have profited from illegal Iraqi oil deals.

To the lifelong misfortune of poor old Norm, one of those accused was none other than Dundee’s finest, the most combative MP Scotland has produced for  many years, “Gorgeous” George Galloway. And he wasn’t taking it lying down. In fact he was on the first flight to the States to single-handedly take on the might of the Washington establishment.

Norm had obviously never heard of this man from – where was it? – oh yeah… Scotland. By the end of the day he must have been longing for the relative peace and quiet of Minneapolis. In a bravura 48-minute performance, Galloway stared him down and quite simply tore him to shreds.

He branded Norm a “neo-con, pro-war hawk” and the “lickspittle of George W Bush” who had “traduced” George’s name around the world without asking him a single question. Memorably he added, “I know that standards have slipped over the last few years in Washington but for a lawyer you are remarkably cavalier with any idea of justice.”

On and on he went. The investigation, he said, was “the mother of all smokescreens”. Poor Norm tried in vain not to look shell-shocked. He shuffled uneasily from buttock to buttock as both barrels came hurtling in his direction. It was classic Galloway, arguably his finest moment.

Even today, type the words ‘Norm Coleman lickspittle’ into Google and it brings up pages of results.

The sight of Norm Coleman this week made me wonder just how much fun Galloway would have with the man who has dominated the news in the US for months now. Can you imagine the potential TV debate?  In the red corner (naturally), George Galloway, and in the blue corner, that lovable billionaire and wannabe US President Donald John Trump.

It would be an absolute televisual extravaganza. I would pay for a front row seat. And I know who the winner would be. As Norm Coleman found to his cost, Galloway has his beliefs, he sticks to them and he is a brilliant orator. Trump, on the other hand, just throws insults around like confetti. I predict a knockout in 6.

An old newspaper colleague of mine once said that, whether or not you like or agree with these people, they “add to the gaiety of nations”. And he was right, old newspaper men often are.

Of course it won’t happen but it would be a damn sight more exciting than the stagnant live debates that are set up to inform (entertain?) the nation but are, in reality, snoozefests.

As for Norm Coleman, he may have looked like a stiff establishment lawyer when sitting on his Senate Committee, but I discovered there is more to the man than meets the eye. In his youth he was a long-haired hippie, attended Woodstock, and was a roadie for Jethro Tull and other rock bands.

Let’s hope his treatment is successful. I can’t speak for George Galloway but I’m sure he would wish his old adversary a speedy recovery.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About the Perils of Spellcheck USA

It’s been a marvelous week. I’ve socialized with neighbors, been to the movie theater, enjoyed a savory pancake, visited a jewelry store, checked the car tires, and had a cozy night in with a glass of whiskey and some licorice treats while analyzing an interesting TV program.

And imagine the thrill of maneuvering the automobile next to the curb at the drive-thru Starbucks in the center of downtown and ordering a decaf skinny latte – a bit of a favorite drink in these parts.

I thought of Scotland and the likelihood that the snow plows would soon be out; the specter of a long cold winter forcing people to wrap up in their woolens and go to bed in their warmest pajamas, perhaps fortified by several whiskeys.

And don’t mention aluminum, mustache, skeptic, paying by check, the hospital’s pediatric unit, a marriage guidance counselor, and the skillful players on the Arizona Cardinals defense (with the emphasis on the first ‘e’)

My non-US friends will see exactly where I’m coming from here. As someone who writes for a living, I now have to adjust from the spelling regime I learned in primary school to a system that is different in many key respects and, to the eyes of an immigrant Scotsman, just looks wrong.

To make matters worse there are inconsistencies galore over here. Meagre becomes meager but massacre remains massacre; civilise is civilize but surprise is still surprise; pretence becomes pretense but license stays as license.

I have no problem at all with the terminology in the US being different from the UK. After all there are thousands of great “dialect words” throughout Scotland that enrich the language. And I find it quite fun to call a tap a faucet, a pavement a sidewalk, a car boot a trunk and a car park a parking lot. Hell, I’m even beginning to say zee instead of zed.  Well…I’ll be darned, I must be going native.

But I had always believed that there was a correct and an incorrect way of spelling and that it was clearly set out in any good English dictionary. It was drummed into us in school that spelling – orthography as one of my old teachers used to say – was an art and set in stone; we had very strict spelling tests and were belted for repeated failures.

So why have Americans changed it so drastically? Do they want to be different, or feel superior, or divorce themselves as much as possible from their old colonial masters? Are they wrong in spelling certain “English” words the way they do? No other English-speaking country such as Canada, Australia or New Zealand deviates quite as much as the US.

It turns out there is one man to blame for this – a certain Noah Webster whose name lives on in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. He was a linguistic revolutionary in the 18th and 19th centuries and believed that the US, as a new nation, should “assert cultural independence” from Britain through language.

He proposed far more extreme spelling changes than were accepted. He wanted phonetic spellings – wimmin for women, tung for tongue. The publication of the final version of his dictionary in the 1820s is the reason Americans spell the way they do.

Of course we just have to look at a document from the days of Olde England to realise that spelling has evolved over the centuries. But the bottom line from my point of view is that, thanks to Noah Webster, my working life is now more of a pain in the butt than ever.

In the meantime I’ll carry on typing and let my new American spellcheck do the rest.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Weird and Wonderful Arizona

I was never sure whether Maggieknockater was a village or a criminal offence until I drove through it on the way to Craigellachie. Apparently it has nothing to do with a woman called Maggie; it means “plain of the hilly ridge” in Gaelic.

But it has always been my favourite weird Scottish place name. Of course there is Dull, Perthshire, which as many people know is twinned with Boring, Oregon. I remember scratching my head when I visited Twatt, on Orkney. And don’t get me started on Cockbridge.

It was no surprise to discover that Americans do bizarre place names on an almost industrial scale. Last week it was announced that a man who had changed his name by deed poll to Santa Claus was running for a place on the city council in North Pole, Alaska. He’ll no doubt be Councillor Claus.

At least North Pole is a fitting name for a town in the freezing wastes of Alaska. But why call a town in middle of the Arizona desert Santa Claus? Someone did early last century. The town used to issue special Christmas stamps and there was a café that sold a Dasher and Dancer omelette. Unlike the real Santa, this place died a death in the 1990s.

My favourite Arizona name is Show Low, a town that got its name from a poker game between two men who decided the place “wasn’t big enough for both of us”. One said to the other, “If you can show low, you win”. So he did..on both counts. The main street is called Deuce of Clubs Street in memory of the low card he turned up.

Not far from Show Low is the town of Snowflake. This has nothing to do with the climate; it was founded by two Mormon pioneers, Erastus Snow and William Flake.

The story of Tombstone, Arizona is well known. The town was the site of the Gunfight at the OK Corral and was named by a miner who began looking for ore in the area. He was told that “the only rock you’ll find out there will be your own tombstone”. In fact he discovered silver and made his fortune.

Happy Jack is a hamlet and popular campground near the centre of the state. It was so called because of a cheerful lumberman who lived nearby. Down near the Mexican border is the town of Why. Or should it be Why? It was built near a Y junction but state law insisted that all names must have at least three letters – so instead of Y it became Why.

One old Arizona ghost town sounds as though it was named by a drunken Scotsman on a Saturday night. Yes there was once a thriving community in this neck of the woods called Total Wreck. It had two hotels and five saloons to cater for only 35 occupied houses – so it might well have been aptly named.

Talking of appropriate names, Nothing, Arizona, is literally that. There was once a filling station and a convenience store but now there is just absolutely nothing in Nothing. As for Surprise, it is a major city with a population of more than 120,000. The founder, one Flora Mae Statler, said at the time that “she would be surprised if the town amounted to much”.

I have no idea of the origins of Monkey’s Eyebrow and Grasshopper Junction.  Carefree presumably promises a laid-back and relaxing life; and Bumblebee is named after a quick-witted gent who threw a rock at a beehive to distract an armed pursuer. The bees then attacked his assailant and he escaped.

It’s a weird and wonderful place out here in the Wild West. But I’m not sure any of these places comes close to Maggieknockater.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About the Killer Critters of Arizona

I could list dozens of things I miss about Scotland. Proper haggis for one – over here it is illegal to serve one of the key ingredients, sheep’s lung. Nardini’s ice cream, nothing in Arizona comes close to it; sailing on the Waverley; the beers produced at the Cairngorm brewery in Aviemore to name but a few.

But most of all I miss being in the Scottish countryside. I used to love spending time in the hills drinking in the breathtaking Scottish scenery and seeing the great diversity of wildlife that inhabits it. There is nothing quite like standing still in the middle of a remote Highland glen listening to what seems like the sound of nothingness.

Yes, I can get a tad misty-eyed thinking about it. But of course there is one other great thing about a day spent tramping through the heather and moorland of Scotland. You are pretty much guaranteed to get back home alive and in one piece.

Don’t copy the actions of a certain gentleman from Saltcoats who picked up two adders – one in each hand – while hillwalking on Arran so his brother could take a photo. Not surprisingly they both bit him – and nearly killed him.

Talking of snakes those of you who know me will be aware that I am not too keen on the slithery creatures. In fact they terrify me with a vengeance. So why did someone who loves the great outdoors but hates snakes come to a place like Arizona – the rattlesnake capital of the world?

The warning signs were there when I discovered the local baseball team is called the Arizona Diamondbacks. There is even a state reptile – the Arizona ridge-nosed rattlesnake. And out in the deserts and mountains there are many other critters that you should steer well clear of.

The truth is that, unlike Scotland, there is no certainty you will come back unharmed from a day in the Arizona countryside.

I haven’t seen a rattlesnake yet – they never venture into the city – but in the desert they are everywhere. Most other snake species are afraid of humans but rattlers attack. A bite from one of these creatures will leave you in extreme pain and in need of immediate medical treatment to remove the venom.

According to the Arizona Poison Center, less than 1% of rattlesnake bites result in human deaths. Somehow “refreshing” statistics like that fail to take the edge off the fear factor.

So what else is there to be worried about? Coyotes are common in these parts; they are often seen at night running across main roads. And though they don’t often attack humans, it is worth remembering they are small wolves and can be vicious if cornered.

In the hills of Arizona – the highest point of the state, Humphreys Peak, which is three times higher than Ben Nevis – there is a healthy population of mountain lions or cougars. These animals will attack humans, causing serious injury and sometimes death.

Black bears are found in forests and woodland areas. The Arizona Game and Fish Department helpfully suggests that, if a bear attacks, then “fight back with everything in your power – fists, sticks, rocks and bear pepper spray”.

Arizona is home to a venomous lizard called a gila (pron. heela) monster. They have never killed any humans but they do secrete a nasty poison.

And don’t go near a javelina. Otherwise known as a peccary, it looks like a small heavy pig. If threatened it will charge at you and give a very nasty bite. Javelinas can grow to 200lbs and attract mountain lions which feed on them.

So far I’ve only ventured out in the wilds of Arizona a few times – and thankfully survived. But you do have to keep your wits about you, and your eyes and ears open for danger.

Ah for beautiful Scotland – where the adders slither away into hiding at the sight of a human.

 

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Life in the Desert Furnace

It took me no time at-all to settle into a new life across the pond. I’d been visiting the US regularly for 12 years so that made the transition easier. But every so often someone makes a comment that hammers home how different life is in Arizona compared with what I left behind in Scotland.

A few weeks ago, when the scorching desert summer was at its height, we decided to put ourselves through the ordeal of looking for a car. If you’ve ever been to the States you will know a vehicle is an absolute necessity. Be grateful for the public transport network that operates in Scotland.

So we showed up at a car dealership to be confronted by the obligatory snake oil salesman. This guy was particularly smarmy, the kind of character you just want to be out of your face within two minutes of meeting him.

But he did have a rather nice available car sitting outside so we took it for a test drive. He came with us and described the bells and whistles that came with the model and then proceeded to inform us that the car had heated seats.

“Well,” I said. “I don’t really think we’ll need heated seats in Arizona, do you?”

His reply was, “Ha ha, maybe not now, but in the winter when the temperature drops to 50 then you’ll be glad of them.”

Needless to say we didn’t get a car from him; we drove away from his showroom in the car we had borrowed from a relative. But at least he gave us a laugh.

In Scotland, when the temperature hits 50F, people drive with the windows down. And it rarely gets that “cold” in Phoenix. I’ve spent holidays here in November and December when it has been in the 80s.

As I write this – at the end of September – the temperature outside is 102 degrees. There is no cooling coastal breeze, Phoenix is in the middle of the Sonoran Desert and it really is intensely hot. During July and August, it routinely reached 115.

Of all the lifestyle adjustments I have had to face, the effect of the heat has been by far the biggest. Without air conditioning in every room, in shops, restaurants, offices and cars, life would be unbearable. And it is imperative to drink water to stay hydrated, especially if I’m planning to have a couple of beers in the evening.

I remember listening to radio weather broadcasts that said the day was going to be beautiful, sunny, with clear blue sky and a temperature of 112. The forecaster would end with the words, “It’s a perfect day to stay indoors.”

Just as people die from the cold in Scotland, they die in Phoenix as a result of the summer heat. Aid programmes are run every summer by local authorities and charitable groups like the Salvation Army to help the homeless with water and shelter.

Phoenix was built in a bowl-shaped valley – the Valley of the Sun – that traps the heat, making it a real-life melting pot. The thousands of buildings, roads, car parks etc have made the situation infinitely worse. The result is what scientists call the “urban heat island” effect where cities retain heat longer than their surroundings.

When the temperature hits 100 for the first time – usually in May – people here are genuinely sad at the prospect of months of unrelenting heat. Everything becomes too hot to touch, there are even animal cruelty regulations forbidding people from walking dogs at certain times of day.

Within a few weeks I’ll be cooling off in the 80s. It’s obvious I won’t miss the rain and snow of Scotland, I’ll just be happy it’s that bit more comfortable. And I definitely won’t need the heated car seats.

Just a Wee Blether…

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About Having ‘The Greatest’ Neighbour

I have never been a great fan of boxing. But growing up in the 60s and 70s coincided with the peak years of one of the greatest sportsmen of the 20th century – Muhammad Ali. I used to love all his showmanship, trash talking of opponents and sheer brilliance in the ring.

To me and a few friends, Ali was “The Greatest”. As a primary school pupil I remember Cassius Clay – as he then was – beating Sonny Liston to become World Heavyweight Champion. After that we watched as many fights as we could, against the likes of Henry Cooper, Brian London, George Chuvalo, “Smokin” Joe Frazier and George Foreman.

In my opinion there has never been a boxer as captivating or charismatic as Ali. I’ve hardly paid any attention to the sport since he retired.

All these decades later I have started a new life in America, only to discover that my boyhood hero lives 20 minutes up the road from me. Sadly I’ll never meet him in the street; poor old Ali is a shambling wreck and has for years been the world’s highest-profile Parkinson’s disease sufferer. But it would have been cool to tell him “Muhammad, you were The Greatest”.

It made me wonder what other famous personalities live not too far from my new home. What well-known faces might I expect to see in and around Phoenix?

The city’s most visible celebrity figure is the “Godfather of Shock Rock” himself, Alice Cooper. The bad boy image is long gone. Instead of draping boa constrictors round his neck on stage, Cooper is a high-profile businessman with a successful restaurant, Alice Cooper’stown. He is also a major charity fundraiser, keen golfer and baseball fan.

Stevie Nicks, the Fleetwood Mac chanteuse, was born in Phoenix and lived here until two years ago when she sold her mansion for a tidy $3.3million. She still has family in Phoenix though and occasionally visits so I’ll keep my eyes peeled.

Others in the music world are Rob Halford, lead singer with Judas Priest; rock guitarist Nils Lofgren; and Bret Michaels of the band Poison. If you are of a certain age you might remember a duo called Sam and Dave who had a 60s hit with Soul Man. Sam is Samuel Moore and lives here with his wife.

The vast majority of these celebs live in the city of Scottsdale and the wealthy suburb of Paradise Valley. Think Newton Mearns, Bearsden and Morningside and you get the picture – the posh part of town.

Remember the man who couldn’t spell potato yet was a heartbeat from the US Presidency? Yes Dan Quayle, George Bush the elder’s Vice-President, is a local. Incidentally Quayle’s wife Marilyn Tucker is a successful novelist (and presumably can spell) whose maternal grandfather came from Maybole in Ayrshire.

Another major political figure of 20th century America was G Gordon Liddy, who spent more than four years in jail for his part in the Watergate conspiracy. His crimes don’t seem to have hurt his lifestyle; he now lives in a very large house in Scottsdale.

Other figures from the world of literature who call this place home include Diana Gabaldon, author of the Outlander series of novels, Stephanie Meyer, who wrote the vampire series Twilight and the adventure novelist Clive Cussler.

From the world of TV and cinema I might be lucky enough to spot Emma Stone, who has moved to California but whose parents co-own an up-market golf resort in Phoenix; Frankie Muniz, star of the TV sitcom Malcolm in the Middle; or actor and comedian David Spade. In fact my wife once saw Spade and his mother in Costco not too long ago.

A few celebs left the area just before I got here, Dick Van Dyke, Mike Tyson, Glen Campbell and jazz musician George Benson among them. And if I take a trip to Tucson I might bump into the great singer Linda Ronstadt.

So if you are an old shock rock fan or hooked on the Outlander books then let me know – I might just be able to get you an autograph one day.