Published Press and Journal 2/5/2011

NOT one to bother much with ancient traditions and superstitions myself, I was kind of surprised to find that my wife is now a devotee of at least one ancient ritual. I woke up yesterday morning and there she was – gone.

Not even a scribbled note on the pillow to say she had finally taken off with someone with a bigger bulge in his wallet than myself. I was bereft.

Tending soon afterwards to my ablutions, I looked out the bathroom window and there was Mrs X on her knees in the back garden.

When I got over the first “Oh no, the Free Church have got to her” moment, I rushed down thinking it was my own fault for letting her be so friendly with that charming Reverend Kenny I, and met her drying herself off with a towel.

She told me how she liked to follow the ancient custom by which young virgins would wash their faces in the morning dew on May Day to rid themselves of pimples and to become beautiful.

I said: “But you’re not a v-v-very young person . . .”

I stopped myself and tried again.

“You don’t have pimples, honey, those are just wrink . . . er, laughter lines.”

“And you’re beautiful, anyway,” I gulped, before she stomped off, slamming doors as she went before tripping over the dog. Oops.

We also had ancient traditions observed at the delightful wedding that we all enjoyed on Friday. And it will now be traditional for the happy couple to have a honeymoon. But where?

When a chap with a lah-di-dah accent called me a few weeks ago, he said he was looking for a get-away-from-it-all place for a happy couple in early May. Did I know any out-of-the-way places where staff wouldn’t tell tales if they recognised them?

Thespians, were they, I wondered. No, just a lad and a lass, he assured me.

Of course I could help, I said, while desperately scratching my head. I wouldn’t be here in the islands for all of the first week of May because at the weekend I’m going to see Coast, I remembered.

No, I’m not going to look at the coast. I’ll explain later.

Oh heck, there must be a hotel in the Western Isles where the staff wouldn’t know Katie Price from Kate Bush.

Found one. A discreet little hideaway where the owners do all the work and haven’t read newspapers or watched TV much for five years.

Brilliant.

Then it crossed my mind that Kate and Wills, too, may be sneaking northwards for their briefly harmonious period before the slings and arrows turned them into grumps like Victoria Beckham at a wedding. How long till his first “Calm down, dear”?

Hey, could it be them who were coming? Oh gosh.

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. We’ll never know. They’ve cancelled. Some change of plan means they aren’t coming now. Then, at the weekend, I heard on the news that William and Catherine Wales aren’t having a honeymoon just now, either. Coincidence or what?

With that other great tradition, the election, happening this week, it was all getting me so stressed that now I’ll be able to go to Coast in peace. Oh, sorry. You don’t even know what Coast is yet. You really want to know? OK.

When I say I am going to Coast I don’t mean yet another Saturday afternoon lying on Coll beach with Mrs X in our underthings, eating corned-beef sandwiches and blowing sand out of all these awkward little places where tiny grains can lodge.

I mean I am going to see Coast, the band. In Inverness.

Although the boys of the band are based south of the border, a couple of them are from an Army family and they spent some years living and going to school on Benbecula. There, seeping out of their transistors, were soul-stirring sounds from the likes of Runrig, probably Christine Primrose, too, and no doubt the nimble fingers of that box player extraordinaire, Calum Iain MacCorquodale.

Unfortunately, being English, they always thought his name was Calum Iain Mac Crocodile. It’s understandable with that strong Uist accent.

Let it go, Calum Iain.

A veritable flood of Celtic music engulfed the boys’ souls in 1980s Balivanich. They were soon hooked and have been devotees of the Sound of Flodday Island ever since.

Having been helping the lads, who are managed by Iain Bayne, the drummer in Runrig, with some of their publicity, I thought I could maybe squeeze in a tiny mention here.

If you are at a loose end and can get to Invershneggie, come and see these rockers on Saturday night. They are fantastic. I am biased, of course, but that does not make them any less fabulous.

You’ll love them. You won’t have heard so much in one package before.

Yes, they are sort of Runriggy at times. They are also a bit Big Country. They can be ever so slightly Dire Straitsy. Sometimes they are a tad Bruce Springsteeny.

Iain Bayne mentioned that he and the other Runrig guys are usually far too busy to read the P&J on a Monday. Good, I can speak my mind, then. Ssshhh, don’t tell them I said so, but these guys in Coast could be even bigger than the other part-Hebridean beat combo that turned out classic albums from Play Gaelic to my own all-time favourite, The Cutter & The Clan.

You really must go and hear Coast. What other band could have that versatility and appeal across so many musical genres? Sometimes they are very modern; sometimes they are very traditional.

I will tell you how diverse the music of Coast is. I sometimes listen to them and I can hear frontman Paul Eastham sing just like Rod Stewart or Bono from U2.

Then, at other times, I hear him sing like Calum Kennedy.

So could you and so could anybody.