Back in my RAF days, I flew several times in Nimrods from Kinloss. We would hunt Soviet submarines lurking anywhere in that wee stretch between Ireland and Iceland. That is probably about all I should tell you about these hush-hush Cold War sorties. Not just because I signed the Official Secrets Act but because I spent much of these nine-hour flights clutching a ministry-issue sick bag in one hand while trying to reheat steak pies, mashed potato and a strange non-runny grey gravy specially formulated for aerial sub-hunting, probably by chucking the powdered mash in it. Even us ground-based air traffic controlling crabs could fly in the shiny hi-tech state-of-the-art NATO sub-hunter if we helped with tiffin. We had to take care around the flickering screens and banks of buttons in the bay that was the aircraft’s nerve centre. Nothing was to be spilled on them. Or vomited on them. Or over any of the whiskery master air electronics operators. I was successful in that. Mostly.
A Russki sub popped up unexpectedly once causing Captain Biggles to throw the unwieldy Hawker Siddley into a steep right turn. The tea things went flying. Spoons and mugs flew around the cabin. I never found the teapot. An inadvertent oral discharge may have dribbled onto some flashing radar console thingy. Probably cost a chunk of that year’s defence budget to fix. Did I own up? Sorry, official secret.
I would gaze wistfully down from 25,000 feet at the Minch, the strip of sea between the mainland and the sparkling jewels that are the Western Isles. If it wasn’t for the expensive ferry journey, I thought, I would have occasionally nipped home to Lewis in my minivan. Much has changed in the decades since then. The ageing Nimrod’s safety record is, sadly, not what it was. Reports last year said a teapot was found in a hole in the fuselage of one Nimrod. I am glad they found it. And, unless that cold fish Vladimir Putin goes all chilly on us again, the Cold War is over.
Yet much remains the same. We still have to stump up a small fortune to sail the Minch. Not much change from £170 for himself, herself and two point four brats. That was a lot of sheep subsidy before we lost that too. So islanders were agog when the minister jetted in to announce Road Equivalent Tariff (RET). An SNP election promise, we were assured that RET would slash ferry fares. Taking a car on a ferry will cost the same as driving it the same distance on a road, gullible Hebrideans were assured. So we voted them in. And we thought yesterday was when island life would change forever.
Stewart Stevenson, for he is the minister, bounced into the ferry terminal like a man with a surprise present in his pocket. His interesting hair stands up, silver and proud. He could have played that kid Eddie in the Munsters when he was young. With his flapping pink tie and big handshakes, he would liven up any kiddies’ party.
An average car costs £120 return from Stornoway to Ullapool. It is 48 miles as the crow flies. And Revenue and Customs sets 40p per mile as the allowance for ordinary cars. So, under RET, it should cost a sensible £19.20 single or £38.40 return. Passenger fares should be the same as a 48-mile bus journey. That is RET, a Really Easy Tariff. The one that Mr Pink Tie actually gave us was 60p a mile plus a £5 per car surcharge. He then put it off until after the summer season and made it only valid until Spring 2011. In other words, the next Holyrood election. It will cut our ferry fares by half – when it comes. But listen, people, it is not RET.
A step in the right direction? Sure. But so much remains to be done. For these isles to have an economy in 30 years, the mindless blocking of job creation by an unholy alliance of evangelicals from the rump of a self-splintered church, cowardly community leaders and uncaring bird fanciers must end. Promoting second-rate island tourism with its over-priced hotels, mediocre customer service and barren, treeless moors is silly. Our main attractions are two beaches on Harris and the remains of a Druidic puzzle.
It is already a regular pastime for tourists to slip quietly into Lewis pubs to see what ingenious ways the lesser-spotted Hebridean can find to squander his Jobseekers Allowance. There are no high fliers left here except the couple of white-tailed eagles screeching over a windswept moor and the ruins of countless schools. These are birds considered so important that a windfarm, the best economic plan for a generation, had to be killed off for them.
Published in the Press and Journal on Feb 27, 2008
Anxious to demonstrate the efforts they had gone to to ensure I did not starve, I have to say my girth shows I am in no such imminent danger, these gallant craft-less submariners then uploaded the footage onto the internet. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYTv8WEti68. Complete with hissy gurgles, the proof is made manifest for all that this most pulchritudinous manna from deep-down heaven did not come to me from the frozen foods section at Somerfield.
