Travelling by train - A column by Ciaran Sneddon

Travelling by train

It can be a simple case of getting from A to B. Or, it can involve an intense battleground as you wade through the crowd that refuses to wait until you depart before they scurry on and steal your still warm seat. Or, you may not even get the privilege of a seat and find yourself face-to-armpit with a man who clearly has had a few hundred too many McDonald’s in his life.

The thing is, whether you love it or hate it, train travel is one of the things that most of us are forced to experience on a regular basis. This week I had a number of long distance train journeys up and down the country and I saw that most people on the train always seem to do the same, equally annoying, things. If you consider yourself a kind, generous and well-mannered passenger then it is time for you to change. It’s time we made train journeys equally irritating and frustrating for everyone, including those who have enjoyed being nuisances for years. If you can’t beat them then join them. And to help you do just that, I present the “Beginners guide to being an irritating train passenger”.

Rule one: Try to push your ideas and thoughts onto every other member of your carriage.

It would be stupid not to make the most of having a captive audience for the period of time you have together on the train. No matter what your belief, politics or ideals may be, chances are that everyone else wants to know every single detail about them.

I recently had the pleasure of spending a six hour journey sitting next to a man with what can only be described as extreme views. He eloquently expressed these views (including why aliens were behind World War 1, and how the Titanic was made up by Hollywood) for the five hour journey we shared together. I can only commend him on his ability not to be disheartened by my yawning and clear boredom as he set off on a 30 minute ramble about the magical powers of Boris Johnson’s hair or some such tosh.

Rule two: Be loud

Rule two is in some ways linked to rule one. If you’re going to share your own opinions on any subject under the sun, then make sure everybody in the carriage hears it. Otherwise, you’re just wasting your time. Of course, you don’t have to limit loudness to talking. If you can, take your baby with you and ensure that it cries and wails for the full duration of the journey. Another way of making noise is eating. Do feel free to rustle your crisp packets, slurp your drink and spray your meal as you talk to other passengers with a full mouth.

Rule three: Take as much luggage as you can

Other people’s legroom is quite frankly unimportant, so please take up as much of it as you can with all your luggage. As you’re not on a plane there really is no limit on the amount of bags you take. You should use the provided luggage rack for the larger suitcases, but there is nothing to stop you using as much of the overhead shelf as you want. You can also cover the table between you and fellow passengers with bags, rubbish, food, drink or anything else you choose. I mean, why do they need any space at all?

Rule four: Try and get on the train before other passengers have got off

Getting the best seat is of upmost importance (you’re going to need a table seat to maximise the potential of using the first three rules to good effect) so make sure you get on the train as quickly as possible. If this involves pushing other people out of the way, blocking their exit from the train, or standing awkwardly in the doorway so that you can leap through the sliding doors as fast as you can.

With these four simple rules, you’ll find that in no time you can out-irritate the irritators and enjoy a selfish, yet peaceful, train ride. If it works for so many others, why shouldn’t it work for you? I wish you a happy, and hellish, journey.

Flying fear - A column by Ciaran Sneddon

Flying fear

This week, I had the misfortune of having to fly to Turkey. No, that makes me sound more than a little ungrateful and rude. What I really mean is that this week I had the misfortune of having to fly.

For some the idea of flying is an exciting one and to some extent I agree. As a child, I longed to be able to soar high into the sky and swoop around with the likes of Peter Pan and Tinkerbell. But nowadays, even the prospect of boarding a plane fills me with a sense of unbelievable dread.

I’m not exactly sure what it is about flying that scares me so much. Perhaps it’s the thought of being 3,000 feet in the air without much hope of surviving if something went wrong. Or maybe it’s just imagining all the things that could go wrong; crashes, attacks, engine failures, particularly over-zealous turbulence or any number of other potential disasters.

Some say that a fear of flying is irrational and often quote something like “The chance of dying in a plane crash is 10 times less likely than the chance of dying in the car on the way to the airport”. This statistic does nothing to soothe my nerves and instead instils a new fear about the safety of any car journeys.

For me, the fear of flying is perfectly rational, perfectly normal and perfectly terrifying. I mean, what isn’t there to be frightened about? I can’t think of any reason why boarding a partially stable contraption that heads mind-numbingly high into the sky would involve any emotion other than fear.

You’re sitting in a mildly comfortable seat with limited legroom and trying to keep your heartbeat down and all of a sudden the engines kick into place. A roar from all around you forces you backwards in your seat as you begin to pick up speed. It feels like you're holding the very plane up by the armrests. I can only imagine what it looks like as the plane takes off, as by this point my eyes will be firmly shut.

A fellow passenger leans in and whispers “We’re above the clouds now, you can open your eyes.” They seem to think this is helpful. I can assure you it’s anything but. The very reason my eyes are closed, my knuckles are white from gripping the seat and my mouth is silently screaming is because of the fact we are now above the clouds. If they had said “it’s okay, we’re still on the ground” then perhaps there may have been a chance of me relaxing. But reminding me how high we are merits an angry glare. Or at least it would, if my eyes were open. Which they’re not.

The thing is, flying has always been a two sided coin for me: both a nightmare and a dream. When I am standing with two feet safely placed on the ground, it seems like such a fantastic thing. The unlimited prospects of the air is fascinating; a freedom can be found in the sky that can’t be found elsewhere. As a child, I was caught up in the stories and adventures of Peter Pan and longed to have the same ability to swirl and swoop as he did. All I needed was faith, trust and pixie dust to make my wish come true. Three little things that would allow me to see the world in a new way.

But, like most things, reality puts a gritty halt to any dream you have. On a plane, you lose all control, and there’s certainly no magical ingredients involved. Your life is entrusted to a pilot you have never met. It’s like getting into a car where a stranger is driving. Just, the driver happens to be thousands of feet in the air, and travelling at just over 500 mph. A worrying thought, I know. In fact, so worrying that you may feel the need to spend a few weeks in a suitably sunny place just to relax from the trauma of it all. I know I do.

Oh but if somebody does come across a way of allowing us all to take off and fly through the air at will, do let me know. Until then, I’ll just have to rely on faith and trust and hope that pixie dust wasn’t too crucial an ingredient.

Behind stage doors - A feature article by Ciaran Sneddon

Behind stage doors.

Nerves are running high through the dressing rooms and backstage corridors, as the cast prepare for the curtain call. The stage crew are making sure everything is in place; lights, microphones and set. It’s opening night and everything has to be perfect. The wardrobe team rush from door-to-door ensuring everything is correct, whilst last-minute make up is being applied and checked in the light-bulb surrounded mirrors. A speaker system relays the rustle of sweet wrappers and murmurs of the audience from the auditorium. The more experienced in the cast know that from the volume of the chatting that echoes its way through the speaker, it is either a full house, or very close to it. It’s 7.20pm. 10 minutes until the show begins.

The dressing rooms are a mess of final rehearsals for the song and dance numbers, and a steely concentration can be found in the eyes of those who pore laboriously over their scripts.
You wouldn't be able to tell by looking at the focus amongst the cast that this is an amateur performance. Or further still, a youth amateur one.
But where profession is lacking, passion shines through. The cast is made up of around 30 young people aged between 12 and 21, who have rehearsed for two long, challenging weeks. They are here because they want to be; some plan to go on to do this as a career, but most simply enjoy the thrill of a live show and love to sing, act and dance. For them this is fun. Fun, but serious. And so it should be. After a fortnight of choreography, line-learning and note bashing, nobody wants to let the team down. For it is just that, a team, pulling together to make this the best that they can.
Around 100 hours of rehearsal boil down to the next two of performance. They're doing West Side Story and whilst for some this is their first show with the group, for others this is the last show they will do here. They want to go out with a bang.

They are at the Adam Smith theatre in Kirkcaldy, and are performing as part of Youth Music Theatre Scotland, a nation-wide organisation that runs workshops and performances at the theatre three time a year - in the spring, summer and autumn holidays.
"This is the five minute call for cast and crew. Five minutes."
This message over the speaker temporarily dims the voices in the dressing rooms, but they quickly return, more excited and frantic than before. A fresh wave of butterflies tumbles through the stomachs of the more nervous cast members.
A group of the 'Puerto Rican' girls, caked in fake tan and dressed in long, flamboyant skirts for their "America" number, make their way along the corridor, telling everyone to break a leg. For one of the newer boys this causes a moment of concern, before a kindly Officer Krupke informs him that this is just a way of wishing well on stage. Some of the Jets are running through one of their numbers, while Bernardo rushes from wing-to-wing, searching desperately for the retractable knife he needs at the end of act one. Tony and Maria are practising 'One hand, one heart' in their dressing room.
There's a sense of anticipation and excitement building with every passing minute and it spreads like electricity through the corridors.
The girls, having completed their "Break a leg" tour, have returned to their room and are checking each other’s make-up.

Suddenly: "Beginners of act one to stage. Beginners to stage."
No sooner has this message been announced, the Jets make their way up the stairs and into the wings. They excitedly whisper "Break a leg" one more time and then head on stage. They are hidden from the audience by a gauze curtain, lit in such a way that whilst the people on stage can see out into the watching crowd, no audience member can see them.
It's a full house. The ushers close the doors to the auditorium, and drag a curtain across them, blocking the light from the theatre corridor. The house lights begin to dim, and simultaneously so to do the voices and rustles from the audience.
Backstage, the rest of the cast gather around the speakers with baited breath, waiting to hear the orchestra play. And there it is, a long string note begins and the overture is underway.
The lights change on stage and for the first time the audience can see the Jets, who are gathered around a rusty stairway, clicking their fingers menacingly in time to the music. The show has started.
The audience is already caught up in it all, as the jets begin their first attack on their rival gang, the Sharks.
The nerves are gone, and excitement reigns supreme. This is the night, and everything is going to be alright.

A Paralympic Success - A feature article by Ciaran Sneddon

A Paralympic Success

This summer saw all eyes turned to London, as it staged one of the biggest sporting events in the world; the Olympics. With homegrown champions such as Jessica Ennis and Mo Farah storming to victory, the team spirit of Britons was running high. When the final note was strummed across the stadium at the closing ceremony, most thought that the best show on earth was over. But for some, it was about to start. It was now time for the Paralympics.

This event, the partner of the Olympics, is still a fairly new competition and celebrates the talents and athletic abilities of a vast number of disabled sports competitors. The games were officially introduced in 1960, at the games in Rome, and ended the prejudice of disabled athletes having to compete in the Olympic Games. Since then, the Paralympics have continued to grow, and this year saw a record breaking number of spectators at the event, and a record number of participating athletes.

The public opinion of the Paralympics is also growing, and there was certainly a buzz about it this year that sparked a new interest in the games. The inspirational stories of the athletes were incredible, and really brought the audience in close to the participants.

One such story is that of David Smith, a 2012 Paralympics champion rower, who has returned fighting strong after being faced with a vascular tumor in his spine that threatened to paralyze him for life.

David, now preparing for a record-breaking cycle around the world, said that he didn't think there was any difference between the Paralympics and Olympics.

"I don't see it as disability sport, I see athletes and I think that's what the British public see. They didn't come to see disability, and what they saw was athletes performing at the highest level. So I think it certainly has left a very positive impression on the public. It's come at the right time and had a very positive effect."

David had previously trained for the Olympics before he knew he had a tumor, but said that in some ways that being diagnosed was a relief.

"For a long time I'd had medical problems that had been misdiagnosed so [I] was like 'Thank you very much.' I finally had an answer to what was 10-12 years of medical condition."

The Paralympics isn’t the only event promoting disability sport however. Right across the country, local disability sports associations are running different sports clubs for disabled participants, and helping to train them for events like the Commonwealth games, or the Paralympics. One such association is Disability Sports Fife, and I went along to the annual carpet bowls tournament held for disabled competitors from the local community.

The hall was a buzz of excitement during the competition, and the participants had a mix of competitive spirit and pure joy written on their faces.

As the prizes were given out at the end of the day, you could see how much the sport meant to some people, as they collected their trophies in a truly overjoyed style.

I spoke to Richard Brickley, President of Disability Sport Fife, who told me a bit more about what his organization does for the community.

“What we’re trying to do is first of all to get more people active, more often. We’re interested in children, young people and adults and we’re interested in all levels of physical ability.

“We just think we’re contributing as many other people are, to open doors and break down barriers to try and improve the quality of life of all members of the community, not just those that can excel. Some of these bowlers today have never won anything in their life, [and there were] some absolutely astounding performances today. They’ve obviously been practicing!”

Richard told me that new members were more than welcome to come and join any taster events they run covering a range of sports.

Disability Sports Fife is planning to send athletes to compete at the Commonwealth games in Glasgow and has hopes for the Rio games in 2016.

It seems that the profile of Disability Sport is rising, and the athletes themselves are continuing to break records and excel at what they do. But Richard Brickley concluded that it wasn’t just about winning prizes.

“You might be opening more than just a medal today. It’s about opening doors in local communities, and nobody wants to be sitting at home when they could be doing that.”

‘Happy Lands’ star up for BAFTA - A news article by Ciaran Sneddon

A Fife man has been nominated for a BAFTA Scotland New Talent Award for his performance in the community film ‘The Happy Lands’.

George “Joki” Wallace played the role of Dan Guthrie in the film, which premiered at this year’s Glasgow Film Festival. The film has gone on to receive fantastic reviews and is currently on a roadshow across the UK and abroad in an effort to be noticed by a distributor who can promote the film further.

The film is based in a fictional Fife community during the 1926 miners’ strike and consequent lockout. It follows three families: the Brogans, Baxters and Guthries. Dan Guthrie is the stalwart of the community and is head of the miners’ committee.

Joki, who has never acted before, spoke about how he set about bringing the character to life.

“Having been brought up in a West Fife mining village, I followed my grandfathers and father into the coalmines, working on the coalface for 28 years. My own experiences working in the coalmines, and the stories I heard from the 'auld boys' when I was growing up, helped me enormously to portray my character Dan Guthrie in the film.”

The film was shot across Fife and Edinburgh and features an amateur cast made up of members of the local community.

Further information about the film can be found by searching ‘The Happy Lands’ on Facebook.

The BAFTA Scotland New Talent Awards 2013 will take place on Thursday 21 March.

Life in ruins - a feature article by Ciaran Sneddon

When you're walking through a deserted ruin of an ancient city, you don't expect to see much life. Which is why, when I'm walking along what remains of a Roman street high in the Turkish hills, being faced by a trio of donkeys is more than a little surprising. I am in Kaunos, a Lycian-turned-Roman harbour city situated along the west coast of Turkey. My guidebook tells me that I'm on one of the main roads of Kaunos; you certainly wouldn't be able to tell by the uneven cobbles that remain, forming a treacherous path down the side of the hill.
The street I'm on is reaching its end and merges into a meadow area, covered in an assortment of grass, wild flowers and orange trees, complete with their sweet-smelling blossom.
Kaunos appears to grow from the ground itself, hardly surprising given how long it has been here. It begins at the brow of the hill above and stretches into the near distance. It looks out over a meandering river and marshland, although this was all once the sea. On some of the surrounding mountainsides you can still see the remains of the harbour walls, sticking out of the slopes like artificial outcrops.
Kaunos is not a big city, but was once a strong and prosperous place that exported large quantities of salt, fish and resin to the surrounding communities. It is now in a worn and ruined-state, although an amphitheatre, church and Roman bath all hold much of their original, impressive structure.

The donkeys move on, apparently uninterested in posing for a photograph, and head towards shelter from the burning sun. It's just after noon and the temperature is breaking 30 degrees. The donkeys choose to rest in the shade of a nearby orange tree and as they do a small pair of ears emerge from the undergrowth. Seconds later, the ears become a head and body as a foal precariously wobbles to its feet. Camera at the ready, I move forward to capture an image as it slowly trots over to its mother, but as I do one of the rocks by my feet moves. While I'll accept that donkeys living here is unlikely but possible, I'm not quite ready to believe that there are rocks living here too.
Of course, it isn't a moving rock but a moving shell. A tortoise is slowly ambling across the surface of the dusty, dry path towards a tuft of grass that looks particularly luscious.
Its face is old and wrinkly and the shell is faded with age, but it's camouflage is still incredible. Had it not moved, I doubt I'd have seen it at all. As it moves off, I see more "rocks" that have also sprouted legs and heads and they're racing, in a characteristically slow fashion, towards shelter and food.
I too move on and cross an overgrown patch that used to be a lane and walk through the base of an archway that dates back thousands of years.

The quality of remains at Kaunos is remarkable. Many of the larger stones across the site are inscribed with a mixture of Greek and Roman lettering, and a number of original columns remain across the city. Back in Britain, I can imagine these discoveries, found as part of various archeological digs in the area, would be carted away to be put in glass cases in museums across the country. The actual site would be rid of all character and visitors would be restricted by endless "Keep off the monument" and "Look don't touch" signs. Here, there are no rules or barriers and once you have paid your 8 lira entry fee (around £3) you are free to roam the ruins. I think it's because of this that the city feels like, well just that, a city. In the amphitheatre you feel like part of a Roman crowd, as you walk through a grand tunnel into the arena. In the temple, whilst all that remains is a central altar feature, there is a serene feeling. This isn't so much a tourist attraction as a walk through a city, where you just happen to be a few thousand years too late.
The city was abandoned in the 15^th century, when a marsh grew between Kaunos and the sea, ruining the prominent trading industry that had once made it such a prosperous place. A malaria epidemic ruined any chance of the city surviving as a place for human prosperity. Since then, nature has continued to take a grip of the city and it now plays host to a larger community than it ever did before; with the noticeable exception of humans.
The sun is beating down, so I head towards the shade of a nearby tree. The call to prayer from a mosque the other side of the hills has begun, and the haunting call from the top of the minaret echoes as it rolls across the mountains.
The sun dips behind one of the few clouds in the sky so I decide to walk to one of the older baths in the city. It is a large structure that drops into the ground like a swimming pool, but it has fallen victim to the clutches of a tangle of thorn bushes that now cling to its edge. It lies dry, covered in cracked mud. Once the centre of social activity in Kaunos, the bath now plays host to fleets of tiny frogs, no bigger than your thumbnail, jumping and clambering their way along its base and up some rubble to the grass beyond. They have recently emerged from a nearby fountain that is now full of algae-green water and a swarm of tadpoles.
It's fascinating to see how life has evolved in Kaunos; generations of animals have settled here since humans last called this place home. All around, nature is making use of its surroundings. A herd of goats is looking down from the top of a tall pile of rubble, searching for food. A conga line of ants dance their way across the cobbles carrying the seeds of the grass that pushes its way through the cracks in the rock. Three lizards bathe in the sun as it shines down in the amphitheatre. A snake launches itself under a column as I pass. There's even a crab enjoying the view from the top of the hill. Every so often a step in the grass causes an eruption of flies, enjoying the latest deposit from the lone cow that wanders the empty streets.
Life is abundant here, far from the deadly claws of the pollution and destruction of modern civilisation. 
This is a city that continues to be as prosperous and vibrant as it was thousands of years before and whilst one part of it remains cloaked in history, it is also a place for the future. As long as there is life here, Kaunos will never truly be a dead city.