WHAT is Donald Trump up to? The tycoon from Tong has decided he has better use for his hard-earned than pumping it into Lews Castle, the landmark towering edifice which stands so proudly over Stornoway harbour and the sight of which melts the heart of every returning traveller who has spent longer than they should in the bar of the Isle of Lewis.
But there are others with a clear vision of what could be done with the graffiti-riddled, boarded-up postcard feature.
There are now several plans on the table to turn it into a posh hotel or conference centre, and one of them is going to be chosen soon.
Everyone concerned is keeping their cards close to their chests, but things are looking good. I am sure that is the right thing to do, but such secrecy does, I’m afraid, lead to the inevitable whispers about who it might be who takes it on ultimately.
Down in Harris, I met a fellow who was absolutely convinced that it would be one of their locally-bred hoteliers. He would not be nailed down on whether he thought Donald of Macdonald Hotels would be in the running.
Or could the newly-invigorated John Murdo Morrison make a comeback to the industry? I wouldn’t be surprised.
The consensus in the Coffee Pot is that it must be Richard Branson. A fishermen from Back has no doubt at all that Mr Virgin was talking to him over a few pints in the Clachan Bar a few months ago. It was dark; the music was loud.
But our lad got suspicious when the chatty wee man with the wee beard asked about the castle and then happened to mention he sometimes lived on an island. Richard Branson has an island called Necker, in the Caribbean, so it was probably him. Obvious, innit.
For some reason, he cannot now find the tickets for a sunshine holiday in Florida for himself and his girlfriend which Branson thrust over as a thank-you for the sub when the tycoon found himself out of readies. Yeah, must have been him.
As I listened, it began to come back to me. I was in the Clachan one night about then. Very late, it was. Yeah, I think I was talking to a guy from Gress, or was it Vatisker?
I did probably mention that I used to live on Bernera. Necker, Bernera, whatever. It all sounds the same with a rock band speaker next to your lughole. And, of course, back then I was sporting my own wee goatee.
Could he have confused me for the excitable, hairy entrepreneur who has so much growing up still to do?
As I say, it was very late – and very dark.
Now I don’t think I gave him vouchers for a trip to Florida. However, maybe I did thank him for the pint by giving him my lottery ticket. Maybe I said something along the lines of: who knows, it could win something – maybe even enough to pay for that dream holiday he had said he always wanted. Isn’t it strange how rumours start?
So what of our own The Donald? His right-hand man tells me that he is playing with all kinds of ideas and is still planning on coming back to Lewis in a few months to spend a little time and kick around a few ideas.
Does that mean the Lews Castle project was just small beer and he wants something meatier to get his teeth into? Blimey, I can’t wait. The long-awaited causeway to Sulasgeir? The demolition of the Braighe? Who knows what the great man may have in mind for us now?
Or maybe he just has in mind to build an even larger monument to his endeavours here on God’s own island. Another Trump Tower, perhaps? But where on earth would you get a tract of land in Stornoway that is empty and abandoned? Of course, Perceval Square car park.
Those who were keen for him to take an old place and do it up will be bitterly disappointed. They will hope that Trump will not lose interest in our old piles which have seen better days.
Surely someone can be found to look after them and the treasures that are to be found lurking within them. But, then, who in their right mind would tart up Comhairle nan Eilean Siar?
Meanwhile, I am still in recovery after the arrival of a horse’s head in the post the other day. A grim message, clear and unmistakable, I now know I must watch my step and pick my words with more care unless I want to end up in the foundations of the new Nicolson Institute.
Perhaps I should explain for the more-sensitive readers that when the equine head arrived it was actually still attached to the rest of the animal.
No, they did not have to send the Royal Mail’s biggest van for the delivery for it was, in fact, a small plastic horse accompanied by a hastily-scribbled note apologising for the frugal nature of the death threat, but pointing out that even Mafiosi are feeling the effect of the credit crunch.
Symbolism is everything in the psychology of the underworld. I fully understood that the fact they did not dispatch and dismember a real Black Beauty does not mean that the Gaelic Mafia are any less displeased. Now I am worried.
As I am about my own wife who, unlike D. Trump Esq, is really obsessed with our ancient buildings. I am very concerned that she is losing the place. It is now so bad that she has taken to referring to them as people.
She often gazes wistfully out the window and up to Gallows Hill and calls the castle her darling.
Sadly, the reverse can also be true. She has also taken to sometimes confusing people for castles and other old strongholds.
For some time now, she has called me an old fort.
