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.

A jostle of big-name journalists and cameramen formed on the tarmac. They elbowed for position, crippling each other with tripods and heavy camera bags. Then the most recognised businessman on the planet glided down the steps from the back-end of Trump One.

Only The Donald could have the Western Isles’ top industrialist, North Tolsta whizzkid Innes Macleod, as his driver abouter. Reputedly a millionaire himself, Innes is the president of Texas-based electronic engineering outfit HDL International Inc who conducts worldwide business from the big house next to where Kenny the Barber lived on Oliver’s Brae.

I am told he is also an incurable bluenose. You would think an entrepreneur like him would be able to get tablets for poor circulation in his extremities.

But Donald always gets the top people to work for him. His butler was the mayor of Martinsburg, West Virginia. A mayor? That’s like our convener, Alex Macdonald, being hired to serve the soup in Oliver’s Brae.

The Donald’s weekends are mostly spent at his Mar-a-Lago home in Florida. It is also a private club with 58 bedrooms, 33 bathrooms, a spa, a ballroom, tennis courts, a nine-hole golf course, and a private tunnel leading to his favourite beach on the Atlantic Ocean. Hey, come to Bosta on Great Bernera, Mr T. We have a beach on the Atlantic Ocean. Just no private tunnel or tennis courts or, in fact, any of the rest. We used to have a one-hole golf course in front of our byre but that probably doesn’t count.

At the press conference, nobody except the national press wallahs cared much about the £1billion plans for the Balmedie golf resort. Trump would only harrumph: “Who? Martin Ford? Don’t know the man. I just hear he’s not very popular, that’s all.” No, the big buzz in the Woodlands Centre on Monday was whether he would say anything about saving Lews Castle, our own crumbling landmark. He’s gonna think about it and come back to us.

A mock-Tudor folly, built with the wealth of a dodgy opium king it would, consultants reckon, be just the job for a hotel and conference venue but could cost anything up to £20million to do up. The castle has a few towers so he could boast: “I have two towers in New York and four in Stornoway.” If he also snaps up the Tower Guesthouse on James Street he could have five.

The Donald’s sister is a star too. They call Maryanne Trump Barry the diva judge. You do not want to mess with her. She reminds me of the Golden Girls. Sweet as apple pie, she fondly recalled being chided with “a ghraidh” (my dear) as her grannie suggested she stop doing whatever she was doing on the Sabbath.

Don’t be fooled. Maryanne is as tough as old Arnish boots. Now a federal appeals court judge, she is a former prosecutrix. That means she was New York’s answer to David Teale, the supercool Stornoway procurator fiscal. But in a shawl. And high heels. Wow, imagine that? No, nor me.

Appointed by some white-haired guy who is married to the famous Hillary Clinton, they call Maryanne a diva because of her bench-slapping. That’s American for making mincemeat of opponents. I think I know why. She probably swears at them in Gaelic. And we all know that Tong Gaelic is a coarse, unintelligible dialect that has always baffled people in the civilised world this side of Ford Terrace in Tong.

She jumped right in there when she twigged that Domhnall Iain was being hassled by the scribblers. You could almost hear the snarl. “Mom would be proud, he’s a good boy. He’s funny too.” Coolly, calmly, she stared out the reptilian slitherers.

Her piercing don’t-even-go-there gaze made them recoil. Even the most noble among the pack, veteran scribbler Bill Lucas, belted up smartish. I heard a woman from an American paper gasping: “Oh no, Maryanne is looking this way.” It would be good to chat to Maryanne properly. I haven’t interviewed what you would call a real prima donna for ages. Not since Mary Bremner left the council anyway.

Published in the Press and Journal on June 11, 2008

On the pretence of having an open day, they summoned me to Stornoway nick for a high-level meeting. It was upstairs. A cop from Scalpay, who does the press-ganging for Northern Constabulary, persuaded me to lay down my pen and recorder for a truncheon and pepper spray. Wallop. Whoosh. I can’t wait.

From my photo, you may think I am past the first flush yet I’m in supreme condition. While telling me that anyone can join at 18, Inspector Willie “Scalpach” Maclennan winked loudly and added that there was no upper age limit. I knew exactly what was going on. Top cop Ian Latimer wanted me on the team.

“Really? No upper limit at all?” I wondered. He looked me up and down, adding: “There will be a fitness test.” He didn’t get those pips on his shoulder by being slow and he quickly deduced that my proud abdomen may look like a big belly but is actually a powerhouse of muscle, relaxed muscle. What a big asset, he must have thought.

So why now? There is talk of fuel price riots, you see. Latimer needs cool heads to prevent the Shader Red Diesel Users And Abusers Association from storming the pumps at the Welcome In in Barvas. After a couple of weeks’ intense training in Tulliallan police college, I reckon he’ll want me back to co-ordinate the operation. Too important to leave to polite skinnymalinks like Chief Inspector Philip Macrae. Seniority is so overrated.

I passed the police entrance exam – in 1977. One question stumped me. It was “Who wrote the opera Pirates of Penzance?” Afterwards, the sergeant asked: “How did you get on, lad?” “Tricky pirates question,” I said. He goes: “I’m sure a bright spark like you knew it was Gilbert and Sullivan.” I said: “Didn’t they do Ooh Wakka Doo Wakka Day?”

Suddenly I yelled: “There’s a disturbance out there.” Whereupon the sergeant immediately exited the room and proceeded in a westerly direction to the front desk, giving me just enough time to retrieve my paper and insert his answer. Thick but cunning, that’s me. I would be ideal for CID.

Only a technicality stopped me joining up back then; my bum was technically too close to the pavement. But the Scalpach insists there is no height restriction now. Even a rookie gets £21,000 a year. That’s fantastic money for an 18-year-old – especially for someone unlikely to squander it on the mind-altering substances on offer in most pub toilets from Invershneckie to Lovely Stornoway.

And the salary goes up loads every year. So I am going to ask for mine to be sort of backdated to include every increase since I sat that entrance exam back then. I’ll hound the drunk drivers in lawless dives like Garynamonie and Garynahine for wonga like that. Not only am I confident of being accepted but also I’m very sure of being fast-tracked for meteoric promotion. When Ian Latimer realises that I could go back to writing about him in the P&J, he’ll make sure I go to the very top.

Me in a hat with scrambled egg on it. I can see it now. I’ll move force headquarters from Perth Road to the Barvas Moor. It will have an overhead watchroom to intimidate law-breaking Westsiders, which are all of them. I’ll bring in daily breathalyser tests for all drivers in the Free Church (Continuing). Well, they’re all on something. I shall also test the emissions from all Galson Motors buses daily – and from the councillor who runs them.

In fact, I will harass every councillor. The parent councils of all the schools earmarked for closure will help me with that, I suspect. No cost to the taxpayer.

Did I mention that another potential employer is coming to see me on Monday? Donald Trump has a record of getting the best people. I can see me in the Trump World Tower bawling out my posse of gorgeous, pouting secretaries – just like Sybil at the council here. “Get me Heimer in Great Falls, Montana. Get me Buck in Great Bend, Kansas. Get me Auntie Kirsty Ann in Great Bernera, Uig.”

Career choices, they say, are our most important. One thing is sure; Ian Latimer’s package is going to have to be a good one. Because I know The Donald’s cousins, Calum and Willie Murray in Tong.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I was writing to you next week – from the 27th floor of a skyscraper. Just imagine; Calum and Willie and me looking down over United Nations Plaza in downtown New York, a low-flier in each hand. Just like being in the Crow’s Nest in the Legion.

Published in the Press and Journal on June 4, 2008

No-one from the Isle of Harris is rude. Or busy. Most of them are called Donald. Especially the men. They are often found driving slowly along the Golden Road down the east side of the island, very slowly as I shall explain later. Hearachs take things easy. So it is not every day that one of them gets stroppy but a Macdonald Donald, who has loads of hotels, has had a go at some of our hard-working members of the Scottish parliament accusing them of making a political pawn of the business he built up. A Hearach housewife I know well got the wrong end of the stick completely because she thought the comments had been made by another polite Harris businessman. Easy mistake as he is also called Donald. He is also a Macdonald. He has no hotels but he does run the post office on Scalpay. She wondered how the former councillor had the time to attack politicians when he should be behind that counter counting out pensions. I put her right.

In return, she dispensed her usual health tips saying that in this cold weather I should be wearing two trousers. It made me feel strangely young to be scolded by an older woman. Hmm. Anyway, she went on to praise the first Macdonald Donald saying he was a fine man who only wanted to build houses and a supermarket in Aviemore and should just be allowed to get on with it. His point exactly. Before he eventually got the thumbs-up, that Donald thinks, opposition MSPs were rubbishing his £80 million bid with time-consuming hassles as they tried to trip up Alex Salmond. Such shenanigans could spoil Scotland’s reputation as a place to invest in and create jobs, he reckons. Plenty of important people have lined up behind him. A canny Hearach is too fly to name names but they will know who they are. Are they listening?

Whenever a Hearach has a good idea, you can be sure a Lewisman will claim he too thought of pretty much the same thing, only bigger and better. Lewis is bigger than Harris, you see. It’s an island thing. It’s just the way it is here, so don’t go on about it, okay? On cue, up pops our adopted standard bearer for the big and better island. Okay, the Trump Donald is just a half-Macleod but his mother was born far enough to the north of the Aline River to make him one of us Leodhasachs. He is from Tong and that is that, even if he would rather invest in dreariest Aberdeenshire rather than turn up with a thick wad to make dreams come true for Sandy Bruce, the golf club captain in his own far-flung, heathery island homeland across the seas.

So the Trump Donald was not happy either. Alex Salmond’s handling of his £1 billion golf resort bid for Menie Estate is also getting pelters from the time-wasting also-rans in the noisy corner of Holyrood. They used to hold power but now they hold grudges, it seems. They are accused of slinging mud at the SNP for the sake of slinging mud at the SNP. The Donalds fear that the Lib-Labs do not even care about the endless inquiries and hold-ups they are responsible for which could mean that the jobs to be created are put at risk. If the Donalds were not a full-Hearach and a half-Leodhasach respectively, they would ship out, they seemed to be saying.

Many agree that the Donalds have made a cracking point. Maybe it should be looked at carefully, but not too slowly. Unlike a car that was driven by a Harris housewife on the single track down to Geocrab last weekend. She drove with almighty care and attention at a constant 12mph ignoring the speed king behind who was foolhardy enough to want a breakneck 15mph. I was chewing the steering wheel for miles before she let me past. There was no point in remonstrating. We were in Harris and I had not wasted time because this was Harris time. And there was plenty of it.

As published in Press and Journal on March 12, 2008