Monthly Archives: April 2009

Spirits lows as weather puts Rockall bid in doubt

Posted on April 29, 2009 | 1 Comment

Bad weather seems set to scupper a bid by five Belgian radio amateurs to land on Rockall and set up two stations to speak to thousands of other enthusiasts around the world.

On Wednesday morning they had arrived at the rock, more than 240 miles west of mainland Scotland, but the skipper of their chartered yacht said that he could not allow anyone on board to risk their lives by attempting a landing in that wind and heavy swell.

Rockall, the summit of an ancient volcano, stands about 60 feet above the Atlantic. Landing on the rock in any weather can be very difficult as it is steep even on its most accessible side. The area is infamous for its high seas and very changeable weather throughout the year.

The Elinca leaves for Rockall on Monday

The Elinca leaves for Rockall on Monday

The Belgian team led by electronic engineer Patrick Godderie, 42, and Theo Vanderydt, also 42, a member of the Belgian special forces, arrived in Stornoway on Monday and sailed out via St Kilda in the Elinca, a 67ft steel-built former BT Challenge yacht owned by Aignish-based boatbuilder and charter operator Angus Smith.

The team had hoped to set a record by broadcasting from Rockall for two days with the aim of making 2,000 two-contacts by shortwave radio. The current record is 260 contacts made by two Scots hams in 2005 who managed to stay on Rockall for two hours until bad weather made them abandon their bid.

Speaking by satellite phone from Rockall on Wednesday morning, Skipper Smith said: “We very hopeful on Tuesday as conditions seemed to be improving, But things have worsened overnight and when we got here around 7am this morning, it was obvious that a landing would be far too dangerous.”

The radio hams, who had been training for the expedition for eight months, as well as the three other passengers who are with him and his crewman son Innes, 24, on the Elinca were very disappointed, said the skipper.

“We will now return to St Kilda for the moment but as far as getting onto Rockall is concerned this time, it is not looking good.”

A spokesman for Stornoway Coastguard said the weather in the area was not set to improve towards the end of this week and it looked as if Friday could be quite rough.

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Posted in Popular culture, Scotland, Stornoway, Western Isles

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Crossing the Minch and finding smelly rams and rare drams

Posted on April 27, 2009 | Leave a comment

WHUH. The smell on that ferry to Skye on Saturday morning was something else. There had been sales the day before on North Uist and all these cattle dealers from Dingwall and Muir of Ord were heading back to the mainland. Cattle trucks full of calves, rams and lambs were lined up on the deck of the ferry.

But the pong on the ferry was not from the dung on the trucks. No, it was from all the red-eyed livestock dealers who had quite obviously spent a very long and very wet evening in the bar of the Lochmaddy Hotel.

They are not like us refined west-coasters. While we island guys just go very quiet the morning after we have had a few, the ones who live on the east side of Highland Council’s patch just get louder and funnier.

They get through their hangovers, not by sitting with their heads in their hands and offering up prayers and promises never to over-indulge again if the nausea is lifted, but by laughing and shouting loudly.

When the fresh-faced drivers appeared in the ferry cafeteria to ask the more-mature dealmakers if they had a good evening, the bread-and-butter accents in close harmony reminded me of something from very long ago. The last time I had heard that many Dingwall voices, they were all gathered round me trying get me to my feet and telling me to get in the back of the van, laddie.

The Hebrides at Uig

The Hebrides at Uig

My journey on the smelly ferry Hebrides was to get myself over to Skye before Stephen Brass, the South Uist slater who was attempting to swim the Minch. Intrepid Stephen had been training long and hard to do the doggy-paddle all the way across.

Sadly, word came through that poor Stephen was suffering from cramp and was abandoning his bid. I was so disappointed and I couldn’t help thinking how Stephen was feeling. Bet he’ll try again, though.

So straight back on to the Hebrides, which was returning to Tarbert, and this time without its jolly cargo of cattlemen.

This time, though, a group of red-faced guys in skin-tight Lycra came on. A group of English cyclists, they caused a stir when they took up positions at the windows in the observation lounge.

A housewife, from let’s just say the Lochs area, was rabbiting away in Gaelic to her sister, unaware that two seats along from her was a wee fellow who also had a smattering of the language of the Garden of Eden. Me.

She heard one of the cyclists saying they had cycled from Portree. Her sister, who seemed very intent on checking out everything from their cycle clips to their helmets, said that would be the reason they looked so flushed. But, no, the Lochie lady didn’t think so. In her view, it was a circulatory matter because these chaps were wearing such incredibly tight outfits. The blood had to go somewhere.

She must have had nursing training because she helpfully pointed out where all that blood should normally be and all of us sitting nearby got an impromptu lesson on the human bloodflow system. Until, very inevitably, both women dissolved into fits of loud and infectious giggles.

The tightly-packed gentlemen cyclists from south of the border looked on, utterly bemused and oblivious to the fact that their protruberances were under such close scrutiny by a group of very naughty fellow-travellers.

When I got to Tarbert, there was time to kill. Cameraman, my faithful old travelling companion, was still on North Uist and it would be some hours until the next ferry from Berneray. So I ran into the Harris Hotel and could not believe my peepers. It had been taken over by scores of wee people with the gentlest, sweetest smiles, all scurrying about in the corridors, the dining room and the lounges. Ladies of a certain age, mostly, they were quietly spoken and whispering. And they all looked vaguely familiar.

Lovely people they were. Until they spotted me. Suddenly a chill like a cold mist rolling off a dark Harris hill descended on the inn. The smiles of the bustling ladies turned down in an instant and they scowled in unison, pushing past me. Who were they?

I grabbed a member of staff. Had aliens landed? Was I in the middle of the biggest news story at the Harris Hotel since the rebellion of the castaways on Taransay? There was nothing to worry about. The hotel had been taken over by the Free Church of Scotland, she whispered, trundling off with plates of trifle.

Good grief. I knew it. I had an inkling these characters had not looked like the usual Saturday-afternoon boozers you find in the licensed premises of downtown Tarbert. I also knew the Free Church had pulled off a similar coup by taking over the Carnish Inn in Uist. But this was staggering.

My mouth must have been hanging open so much that I was in danger of being mistaken for a serving hatch before it was gently explained to me that it was merely a one-day Free Church conference.

Then I spotted something almost as unusual as 50 Free Church cailleachs on licensed premises. It was a bottle of rare Royal Household whisky. I knew you could buy it from the Whisky Exchange in London for £300 a bottle.

Ach, it's a rare dram that

Ach, it's a rare dram that

Apparently, as this one had been opened, there was a problem with evaporation from the bottle. So the kindly owners of the Harris Hotel decided to sell it by the nip rather than let the angels have it.

Did I? Of course. Recovering from the shock of coming across a rake of Free Church delegates, I sat quietly with Cameraman contemplating the day’s events as we sipped a glass of one of the rarest drams on earth.

You, too, can have a taste, for a mere £10 a nip. But only if you hurry. Tell them I sent you.

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Posted in ferries, Popular culture, religion, Scotland, Uist, Uncategorized, Western Isles

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My night of Cabernet and crisps with the next prime minister

Posted on April 20, 2009 | 2 Comments

THERE would be cheese and biscuits and a glass of something red. At first, Donald John Macsween gave me no reason to change my plan to spend the evening learning what evil deeds that twisted David Platt was plotting on the cobbled streets around the Rovers Return.

Then he said something about the minister being there. The minister? The prospective Labour candidate and a man of the cloth were having a get-together in the new Bridge Centre in Bayhead?

I was intrigued. It’d be one of the few Lewis churchmen who don’t talk down at you and make you feel you are about to be flung headlong into a particularly hot place.

Maybe Tommy Macneil, a preacher who always cracks a wide smile. Or the equally welcoming Stanley Bennie. Gosh, not the only cool Free Church minister in the universe? Not Kenny I. Macleod? But it wasn’t him, either.

It wasn’t even a churchman. It was a fellow called Purnell. A minister of the Crown. It is hard for me sometimes to keep up with who is in the government. I sometimes wake up thinking Denis Healey is still chancellor and that Mike Yarwood is still on the telly pretending to be him and saying James Callaghan is a silly billy.

Then I remembered James Purnell was the guy who said dole must be stopped from anyone who drinks more than the government’s dram limit. The cove is obviously nuts but, hey, I’ll go along if I can also slurp Labour’s red, red wine and gnaw at Marina Macsween’s things on a stick.

It turns out Purnell is the secretary of state for work and pensions. He was in Stornoway announcing he was giving dole back to weavers who have no tweeds to weave.

There are no flies on him. Saying he is giving the weavers dole, Purnell knows that every loomshed on the island is restocked daily with half-bottles which are then hidden deep in the weft and warp. So promised benefits will be blocked by the anti-booze legislation anyway. Cost to the government? Zilch. Smarty points for him? Oodles.

With 10 Downing Street in meltdown, I had to collar him.

Trying to catch his eye was hopeless. All the great and the good of the Labour Party were milling about trying to touch the hem of his cape. George Gawk, Angy Hog, Callum Ian MacMillan; all the movers and shakers. All I could do was nibble on Marina’s delights and swig more of the gratis Cabernet Sauvignon.

Then I was swooped on by Mary McCormack, who came over all unnecessary at the sight of my red braces. I had a flashback to when she was my English teacher and how, as an acne-riddled oik, I used to wonder what support she was relying on as she bravely took us through analyses of what Orwell had in mind penning 1984.

Purnell tries out Cal's loom

Purnell tries out Cal's loom

Mary then suggested I wore blue braces to Tory functions. Protesting political neutrality in even my choice of trouser hoist, I was about to tell her I was like the Liberal politician who was never more confident making a speech than when he wore lucky red underpants.

However, Mary’s husband, Councillor Angus, a maths teacher of mine back in the day, looked perturbed that his beloved was paying close interest to the chest of a much younger man. My tale, as it featured undergarments, would have to wait until another day.

Then I seized Purnell. He has a lean and hungry look about him so, with the promise of one of Marina’s fish-shaped salmon mini-pastries and a bowl of ready-salted, I lured him away from the limpet of Lewis lefties.

What I really wanted to know, of course, was whether he had any e-mails recently from any spindoctors. And who will they slide in to replace Gordon Brown before the election?

On the record, he gave all the standard responses about regret for e-mails, there being no vacancy at the top and all that jazz. Relaxing afterwards, he unburdened himself about Damian McBride, Derek Draper, the zero-chance leadership contenders, who was doing what, and to whom.

I really regretted that promise I gave not to breathe a word of what he told me to a soul.

With an election only a year away, George Gawk is way off the mark again, pontificating that sharp-suited but personality-free former union boss Alan Johnson will have any leadership opportunity going in the bag.

Then again, we are hardly likely to believe a born-again boy racer in his 50s, are we? George has dumped his 4×4 and would have us believe the souped-up Subaru Impreza he has just bought is for rounding up sheep. Rounding up Hearrach barmaids, more like.

No, the contender who will be asked to step up will be my crisp-filled companion, James Purnell. Who will stop him? Johnson? No chance. Lord Mandelson? Balls. I mean, Ed Balls? Hardly.

Alistair Darling must stay where he is. All that fuss last year when he claimed we were facing the worst downturn in 60 years; now we know he was spot-on. Clever fellow. He’s from Great Bernera, you know.

No promotion, either, for shameless freeloaders who claim boxrooms as main homes. So there is only one person I know who could scupper Purnell’s chances. Unfortunately, a year is not long enough for Kenny I. to quit the Free Church, win a by-election and be promoted to government minister.

In the meantime, the secretary of state for weavers’ benefits has what it takes. I have no doubts. I have no money, either, so I can’t put it where my mouth is.

So I will say this: if James Purnell is not the next prime minister, I shall sprint along Cromwell Street wearing my red braces – and nothing but my red braces.

There is no way I will have to do that, of course. But, if I did, I know one person who would be there for a peep. Isn’t that right, Mrs McCormack?

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Posted in politics, Scotland, Stornoway, Western Isles

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Belgian hams bid to broadcast from Rockall

Posted on April 15, 2009 | 2 Comments

Five Belgian radio amateurs are to attempt a landing on Rockall to set up two stations to speak to thousands of other enthusiasts around the world.

They are also hoping to achieve a world first by shooting a video on the rock, more than 240 miles west of mainland Scotland, and streaming it live on the internet on each of the three days they plan to spend there.

A Scottish cameraman is also going to be in the landing party and, if conditions are good and the technology works, hopes are high of the first live TV news broadcast from the rock.

Rockall, the summit of an ancient volcano, stands about 60 feet above the Atlantic. Landing on the rock is very difficult as it is steep even on its easiest side. The area is infamous for its high seas and very changeable weather throughout the year.

Led by Patrick Godderie, 42, an electronic engineer, and Theo Vanderydt, also 42, a member of the Belgian special forces, the radio amateurs and their support team will fly to Stornoway at the end of the month. They will then sail out via the island of St Kilda in the Elinca, a 67ft steel-built former BT Challenge yacht owned by Isle of Lewis-based boatbuilder and charter operator Angus Smith.

Innes Smith was one of those who got on in May 2008

Innes Smith was among those who got on in May 2008

The group has been training regularly in rock climbing, sea survival and rescue techniques as well as practising how they will take their 1.5 tonnes of equipment and supplies from the yacht to the ledge at the summit.

“This has been planned for eight months. We should be able to handle most emergencies and have had a doctor training us how to carry out medical procedures including stitching wounds. Because we will be outside the range of a rescue helicopter, we have had a lot of preparation to do,” said Patrick.

They will set off from the Western Isles around April 27 and plan to land on the rock two days later. The five radio hams hope to stay on until May 3, broadcasting from two sets and sleeping in their specially-designed shelter, by which time they hope to have made thousands of two-way radio contacts around the world on shortwave.

“Rockall is the ultimate challenge. Although we regularly go on other islands, they are not as difficult as this one. Two Scottish radio hams got on in 2005 and got 260 contacts but they only managed to stay on for a couple of hours. We hope to do a lot better because we’re better planned.

“Our main aim is to promote amateur radio. We have so many other means of communication nowadays but there is something very special and personal about shortwave radio. Among the 1.5 tonnes of gear we will take onto Rockall, we have special equipment to fix our antennas, generators and shelter to the rock and with the satellite links we hope to stream footage on our website.”

The shelter has been specially designed for the expedition which will be erected and fixed on the narrow ledge and from which two radio operators will work at a time. It is designed to cover 2.5 metres by 1.5 metres but can be extended, shortened or heightened, as necessary. “We do not know the exact dimensions on the ledge but we can adjust it if necessary. We hope to be able to get back onto the yacht to sleep but, if not, three people at a time could sleep in the shelter.”

Greenpeace on Rockall in the 1990s

Greenpeace on Rockall in the 1990s

Patrick also said that the unnamed professional cameraman travelling with them, who is a Scot, would also be able to send pictures and there was a real possibility of the first live news broadcast from the rock. “It will depend on everything working properly and the weather being fine but we are hopeful,” he said.

There are real risks involved and Patrick says that they are aware that some people may feel they are putting themselves in too much danger. “My own wife is afraid that when she takes me to the airport to go to Stornoway she may not see me again. It was when we saw the video of Tom McClean landing on the rock, which you can see on our website, that we realised it could be done. If you are properly trained then nothing is impossible. We have worked on this for eight months, planning and training.” McClean, a Scottish adventurer, stayed on the rock in a capsule for 40 day in 1985.

The Belgian group is able to monitor wave conditions in the Atlantic by computer. Early May is the likeliest time for conditions to be most suitable. “The waves are about 3.5 metres at Rockall today and we can cope with that. It is sometimes more, sometimes less.”

Their intention is to raise both the Scottish flag and the Belgian flag. However, they say there is no underlying move to add to the various disputed claims for Rockall by declaring it Belgian property. They insist the expedition is about promoting amateur radio by getting the most two-way contacts and their own individual achievements.

Several countries have laid claim to the storm-lashed outcrop. It was reported two weeks ago that Britain had lodged an application for the thousands of square miles of the seabed around it which, it is feared, could put it on collision course with Iceland and the Faroes.

The submission to the UN Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf (UNCLCS) in New York makes a unilateral claim for part of the North Atlantic zone, known as the Hatton-Rockall basin, after the breakdown of years of talks between the UK, Ireland, the Faroes, and Iceland. The UK is now said to measure its extended continental shelf, which under the UN regulations can stretch up to 350 miles offshore, from the outlying island of St Kilda, not mainland Scotland.

Last year, Yorkshireman Andy Strangeway, who has landed on and slept on each of Scotland’s 162 sizeable islands, took another international party to Rockall on the Elinca. Although six of them swam and clambered on, Strangeway himself was unable to get onto the rock because of the conditions. He has vowed to try again this year or next.

Meanwhile, Patrick Godderie is convinced that they have reason to be optimistic of success. He said: “The secret is planning. We have many plans. If plan A does not work, we have plan B and so on. Returning home without a successful landing on Rockall? That is plan Z.”

The expedition’s website at www.rockall.be will be carrying regular updates.

Contact me on [email protected] or leave a comment. Iain Maciver, journalist.

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Posted in Popular culture, Radio, Scotland, Stornoway, Uist, Western Isles

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Bus fun to end as our killjoy council brings back timetables

Posted on April 13, 2009 | Leave a comment

THERE I was, curled up on the sofa, with a hot cross-bun in one hand and a hot cross-wife in the other, when this woman came on Britain’s Got Talent looking like a frumpy housewife from Laxdale.

Now I know that there are quite a few talented ladies of a certain age out past the hospital – a very fine place which has even held its very own Laxdale’s Got Talent contest – but Miss Susan Boyle, age 47 and unattached, did not look like a performer.

Buns

Buns

She told us she had never been kissed. Well, the similarity ended there. None of the Laxdale ladies I know would fall into that particularly category.

On the contrary . . .

Despite the impression of dowdiness, Miss Boyle was sensational. When she sang that number from Les Miserables, it was so hauntingly perfect and uplifting, I put down all the buns in my lap. The sheer flawlessness of her performance and the shock that someone so, well, plain could be so talented was wonderful.

She was nervous, I’m sure, but when she came on she had that really expressionless face, looking dour in that peculiar way that only east-coasters can manage.

You know, she reminded me of someone else. But who? I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

Finding a talent like that which has remained hidden for so long is such a contrast to others we have heard about recently who also have great abilities, but who waste them through their own thoughtlessness and stupidity.

And not just those rude brats who play for Rangers who won’t go to bed when they are told.

Let us, for example, not be too quick to condemn Bob Quick, the top cop who couldn’t be bothered putting his plans for police raids on suspected terrorists in a briefcase. He was in a hurry. What’s the big deal?

Who could have dreamed that these photographers in Downing Street had long lenses and would take pictures?

Scrub that, yes, let’s give him a rocket for messing that up. If you can’t trust the head of the anti-terrorism unit to look after secret info, then who can you trust?

And even here, in the Western Isles, there are talented people who do fantastic work every day without fanfare or seeking applause. Some of them toil away in Stornoway.

Some are even in harness at Western Isles Council. You could find, for example, some of them hard at it in technical services. In that department’s roads and transport services section are an industrious bunch who are busy running our bus services.

They came up with a good one recently. After making big changes to the numbers and routes of the buses, they decided to just start the new service but without timetables. Pure genius. After all, what is the point of publishing a bus timetable? As long as people have a vague idea where the bus is going, then why go into silly little details like times and routes.

Buses (courtesy of Western Isles Transport Preservation Group witpg.org.uk)

Buses (courtesy of Western Isles Transport Preservation Group witpg.org.uk)

All that is going to do is prompt complaints from bolshie passengers when you can’t stick to it. If you don’t even publish one, though, then the great unwashed will have nothing to whinge about. Absolutely brilliant. You have to be very talented to think of that.

Alas, the best-laid plans and all that. It was a fantastic idea on paper and the first morning was very encouraging. It wasn’t raining and passengers enjoyed being out of doors and chatting to each other for ages at the bus stops. You can gossip far better at a stop than you can on the bus because you never know who is in the seat behind you and whether or not they are earwigging.

Sadly, though, the bus planners hadn’t bargained on Iain Don using one of these surprise buses. About nine of them had gone down to Eagleton one after the other, so he just hopped on one of them just in case it was an SNP cavalcade that Kenny Macleod in the constituency office had forgotten to tell him about.

However, the big fellow is a keen amateur navigator because he spends so much time with all these gold-braided types who steer the ferries for CalMac. So when he was taken on a magical mystery tour of strange places with stranger-sounding names, like Melbost, Branahuie and Plasterfield, he began to write it all down. That note is now the script for a new series that MG Alba is making called Co? Cuin? Caite?

The hoo-haa over the entire episode has now forced a radical rethink of policy. Bus timetables are being hurriedly brought back. No more will travellers have the thrill of not having a clue where they are going or when they will get there.

Oh, it might still take Bayblonians nearly two hours to get to town, but at least they can now work out just how late for their appointments they will be.

And, I’ve got it. The unsnogged Miss Boyle had, indeed, reminded me of another songbird I met at a dance in the 1970s in the Laxdale Hall. Very persistent lady she was. She even turned up at the shop where I worked then and, while pretending to be interested in nylon foam-backed carpeting suitable for a bedroom and a nice extra-springy double divan, asked if I was going to the next dance in the hall on the hill.

However, when that stunning voice of an angel started up on Saturday, despite the likeness, I knew she wasn’t my friend from all these years ago. As we danced back then, my admirer would always sing along, loudly and badly, with the cheerful little numbers by that popular beat combo of the time, The Eagles.

She would drag me bodily around the floor as she wailed in my ear each line of One of These Nights or Take it to the Limit as it was being belted out by Rocker or Derek McLauchlan. Or maybe it was Desperado.

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Posted in Gaelic, Stornoway, Western Isles

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My dear auntie is Queen of all she surveys in Bernera

Posted on April 6, 2009 | Leave a comment

Let’s hear it for the Queen. Having an idea these touchy-feely Americans were going to get up close and personal, she decided to get in there first.

She would have been watching how the guys in the royal protection squad do it. Hand up the back straight away before Michelle Obama had a chance to go feeling for a dodgy seam.

So the other First Lady from across the pond got neither her mitts on Her Maj’s embroidery nor the headlines for making the first move. Well played, ma’am. One has given her one in the eye, one thinks.Queen and Michelle

I wonder what was all that small talk between them? They seemed to be going at it 10 to the dozen, but it was not as if the Queen could ask the visitor towering over her if she had come far. The Obamas are just about to get a dog, apparently. So I suppose Her Maj could have been giving her tips on the most suitable breed to get. That’ll be a corgi in the White House soon, then.

Or maybe they just compared husbands. Our monarch would have been concerned at having all these foreign types hanging around the place. She would have been at pains to explain that, at his age, Philip’s batteries tend to run down fairly soon after lunch.

When the batteries are not providing full power, there is always a chance that his blunder-avoidance mechanism will not be running properly, particularly where dear friends from overseas are concerned. Which is no doubt why the prince suggested that he had seen so many great statesmen, and Gordon Brown, that he was having difficulty telling them all apart.

The Queen, though, is not bad for 82. She is just about the same age as my own regal relation, Auntie Kirsty Ann, over in Bernera. But that is where any comparison ends. The head of the Commonwealth, for example, is very appreciative of any little gift her visitors bring her.

Obama brought her an iPod, bless him. Our ruler was graciously thankful, we hear, although she will probably never use it, despite it being pre-loaded with such catchy ditties as Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend, something from The King and I and If I Were a Rich Man.

I bought my auntie a cordless phone a while back. Just the thing, I thought, so she would not have to get up out of her chair each time someone rang. Her Ladyship was not impressed.

I was commanded to take it straight back to Lightning and Electrical, or wherever I dared to get it from without consulting her first. I bet Her Majesty is not so bossy. I bet she does not summon her nephew Lord Linley and then rudely ask him why he has not lost weight since she last saw him and, by the way, why has it been so long since he has bothered to go and see her? No, I thought not.

Still, having good staff helps. Her Majesty might, indeed, have all these footmen and butlers and equerries attending to her every need, but she does not have an Andrea to look after her. But my auntie does.

Her regular home carer, Andrea Maciver, is blessed with some rare qualities. She cheerfully goes about her vital tasks with style and charm. Whatever Auntie Kirsty Ann is moaning about that day is responded to with an avalanche of good cheer and happy yarns. However long the face or grim the news, Andrea bounces back with positivity, warm sunshine and another cup of tea. She is far more than a home carer. Andreas should be available on the NHS.

No matter how hard she tries to be demanding, and my auntie can try very hard, she is soon forced to smile and join the banter. But I love her dearly. Most of the time.

As I do the other women in my life, even although they have sadly abandoned me. Yes, I am home alone while wife and daughter are gallivanting around the north of Scotland. A quick check has revealed that the card for the joint account is not in its usual place.

The credit card also seems to have vanished. And my secret wad under the lid of the toilet cistern? It must have flushed away.

Herself doesn’t know I overheard her telling someone on the phone that she knew some fine new restaurants in Inverness which, she said, were just waiting to be tried out. Restaurants are not clothes shops, dear. Calm down.

She is always so very sensible when we go on shopping trips together. What will the credit card bills be like? She was not like that when she was young.

Meanwhile, yet another towering memorial to a youth long lost but not forgotten is also about to crumble in Stornoway. From the signs outside it, it seems like that fine old landmark on Ripley Place, opposite the fire station, is about to be razed to the ground. It was once the Gibson hostel.

Not always was it boarded-up and so sad-looking as it has been in recent years. Once it rang out with delighted whoops and laughter – and not just from the wardens and masters administering the belt to the various miscreants within.

I was thinking of calling up D.S. Murray in Shetland, Murdo Maclean in London and all the other hard-working lads of my year. We could start a protest and stop the bulldozers moving in and destroying that happy place where we grew up into the well-adjusted, wonderful people we are today.

We are people of solid principles. We could all lie down in the road and block the demolition squad. After all, it was where we studied, played, ate, slept and, in the last year, drank a fair bit as well. What do you think, guys?

No, I can’t be bothered, either. So much to do. I have to paint the shed and repair the mower . . .

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Posted in royals, Stornoway, Western Isles

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