Iain Maciver writes …

THE phone rings. Would I like to go to Barra and get a flavour of Whisky Galore? They are having a festival down there to celebrate 60 years since the film came out.

Och well now, let me think. I’ve only been waiting for the last 25 years for that kind of phone call. Aye, OK then. If you’re stuck, I’ll do it.

I have always been fascinated by Barra. I think it was since I heard a radio interview with a man from neighbouring Vatisker who was asked if he was in favour of the causeway being built to link the two islands.

“No. I am dead against it,” he said. “I certainly don’t want our children being led astray in the fleshpots of Castlebay.”

I have been looking for them ever since.

Turns out that Cameraman, Winchwire Willie and Jock Murray, the naked peatcutter, were also going down. We met up in Am Politician. Named after the real-life cargo ship SS Politician which ran aground in 1941 with thousands of cases of whisky aboard, the pub is not on Barra or even on Todday, but on Eriskay.

Stephen Campbell, Am Politician’s manager, showed us a fantastic collection of bottles and other stuff from the wreck. He even has a fearsome cutlass. Why was that on board? Maybe they used it as a letter-opener. That’ll be it.

For Friday’s launch, we were shipped over to Kisimul Castle, one of the few Scottish strongholds never taken in battle, the seat of the Macneils and a slightly-spooky Tardis-like landmark.

Walk in and you are transported from an islet off Castlebay to what seems like a smart town courtyard – manicured lawns surrounded by tall houses. It was uncanny. My head was spinning. And that was before we even had the welcome drams.

Unlike similar semi-detacheds owned by Hebridean Housing Partnership, these maisonettes are made up of not only pokey wee rooms but also grand chambers, offices and sweeping stairways. Beside one door there is even a freshwater well. I didn’t expect that.

People had come from faraway places with strange-sounding names, from Sweden, the States, the United Arab Emirates and Dornoch.

After music and dancing, local players performed a “reiteach” in the castle – a betrothal party where advice is dispensed to the happy couple. This is basically where more-experienced women who know the pitfalls of marriage offer valuable tips, and all the men just warn gravely against it.

Under a dodgy hat that was several sizes too small, I realised one of these strolling minstrels was Councillor Donald Manford. One memorable line his character had was: “When I proposed to your mother, I was on all fours. I had to be; she was under the table.”

I swear I also heard him utter: “God bless the Eriskay rocks. They brought us the only thing worth having from a politician.”

Was Donald still in character when he said that? I’m not sure.

Then we had the real honour of meeting retired postie Ewen Macintosh up in Borve. In Whisky Galore, he is the wee boy, aged just 12, who dolefully reads out his school essay: “There was no whisky again this week and when there is no whisky we are all very, very sad.”

Ewen even re-enacted the scene one more time at Castlebay School and that will probably be on the telly this evening.

Later, at the wedding, there were fears about infiltration by al Qaida. A telegram was read out which sounded as if it was from the leader of a terror organisation. It was from Dylan Bin Larry. That’s actually Dylan on the bin lorry.

I stayed all weekend, but Cameraman made off back to Stornoway. He didn’t have enough clean clothes to stay down. I quickly figured that he hadn’t packed enough underpants.

He rebuffed my suggestion to go and make inquiries about where to buy underthings and stuff. Not that I have seen any clothes shops, but there are bound to be some. I mean, there are many places on Barra without signs.

I remember asking an old man once where I could buy a torch. He directed me to a shop in the square.

“You know, the shop you wouldn’t know was there if you didn’t know it was there.”

When I asked why they did not just put a sign on it, our bodach replied: “Why? We all know it’s there.”

If he was going to stay an extra day, Cameraman decided, he would just turn his underpants inside out. That would do for the second day. What about the third day?

“Well, if I have to stay another day, I’ll just swop pants with you. That way we will both be wearing pants that are new to us.”

“Go. Go now,” I urged, in my most horrified tone.

Venturing out on Saturday night, whom did I bump into but Iain Macaulay from Point. The Gaelic singer and ferry engineer had just tied up at Castlebay Pier. Then Catherine Lillian and Christine Kojak volunteered to take us on a tour of the famous fleshpots. We finished up in the community hall bopping to Face the West.

Catherine and Christine are lovely little movers. Iain, too, is nimble on his pins. He was giving it laldy to Wedding Stone, a self-penned composition by Mr Keith Morrison himself.

Earlier on, we had an embarrassing incident in the bar of the Castlebay Hotel. I ran out of cash and Iain said he left his bank card on board the ferry. Not that old chestnut, Iain.

I asked Mags Macneil, the barmaid, if she could let us have a wee advance until the following day. But it seems the person who is responsible for such decisions is a lady called Helen.

What Mags actually said was: “If you think I am giving credit on a Saturday night to a couple of chancers from Lewis, you can just go to Helen Waite.”