Iain Maciver writes …

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

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

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.