Tag Archives: hebrides

Fair exchange is no robbery…

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Quite close to the sunniest place in Britain...

When you live on a remote Scottish island you have to lie to friends so they’ll come to visit you for a holiday.’Oh! Well that’s kind of you …but we were thinking of going somewhere hot.’ they say.

‘The island of Tiree is one of the sunniest places in Britain.’

‘Tiree? Zat where the storms are …on the shipping forecast?’

‘Only in winter …in summer the islanders all live in caves to escape the heat.’

‘How come everyone doesn’t go to Tiree for their holiday then?

‘Because the caves are quite small and there wouldn’t be room.’

The first sign of success comes when your friend promises to discuss the idea with his wife and to call back a few days later. The phone rings: ’I can’t believe that …is that right – eighty quid to get the car across on the ferry?’

‘Yes.’

‘…onto a squiffy little island? …for like, one week?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could we come as foot passengers and you pick us up …if you don’t mind driving us around – I don’t mean all the time, of course …just to the main sites-of-interest …if there are any… ‘

A tearful re-union at the island ferry terminal fortified me to the task of fitting a people-carrier load of adults and children together with their personalised luggage into a family estate. My wheels disappeared up inside the wheel arches.

On the island we pay the same amount of money for a Road Fund Licence for our 60 miles of road as people do on the mainland; but people on the mainland benefit from a scheme by which their 250,000 miles of road are repaired.

I carelessly allowed one of my wheels to drive over a pothole and – what with all the load – the sump bottomed-out prompting a witty observation from the passenger seat:

‘Thank God this isn’t my car…!’

Showing off my island to new and appreciative eyes brought so much pleasure that it easily remunerated me for the burden of visiting its attractions  for the fourth time in six weeks …and in any case each visit is different – this was the first time anyone had slammed the door so hard that the windscreen  fell out, for starters.

Day four and even I was surprised to find that in my enthusiasm to bring my guests into an intimate acquaintance with every nook and cranny of the island I’d notched up three hundred sightseeing miles. It was time to top-up at Jimmy Campbell’s. He’s got a new car-washing machine, too, consisting of a length of garden hose and a tap.

‘Oh God, yes – how much do you pay for petrol on the island?’

‘…bout one-sixty a litre.’

‘ONE – SIXTY….!!!??? ONE – SIXTY a LITRE!!!?’ My guest was on the brink of Cardiac arrest …but a muffled snort started his breathing again and the danger passed. His expression fell to pity for the simple islanders and their willingness to shell out one pound-sixty a litre for fuel when no one in their right mind would pay more than one-thirty. Quite naturally he wanted to point out that he was more worldly wise and couldn’t be duped: ’God - I wouldn’t pay all that!’

…so he didn’t.

I always console myself in these circumstances with the words: ‘You’ll get it back’. I learned them from Marilyn Whirlwind – the native Alaskan medical receptionist in Northern Exposure. She said it to Dr Joel when, at her suggestion, he held an ‘open house’ and the native Alaskans wandered in and cleared him out …just walked off with everything he owned – like a charity shop for people who don’t use money.

‘My reward will be in heaven’. I explained to Linda as we sat down to a meal of pulses flavoured with nettles. ‘And they’ve invited us to Luton.’

What’s the attraction of Luton?.’

‘Well, as I understand it – they’ve got cheap petrol; no potholes; Churches close on a Sunday to give people a chance to go to the shops; and whereas we have a mobile cinema come to visit the island every four months to see if anyone fancies a bit of night-life, I heard one of the children observe that in Luton shit kicks-off every night.

Let’s not forget our holiday reading.

Justin

Something fishy in our water…

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I'm not feeling very well...

There’s something funny happening to the frogs in our pond. I mean, I wouldn’t mind – but that’s our drinking water, that is. Fifty of the buggers – dead.

A couple of years ago I sent one off to Glasgow University so that they could work out what was wiping them out. That was the first year I noticed a problem – and at that time there were 400 little corpses, all littered about at the waters edge.

When I say ‘pond’, I mean Loch, of course …it takes twenty minutes to walk around the shore of the peaty water of our loch which has tumbled down from Heather clad hills above, on which there is no industry of any kind. You couldn’t find fresher, healthier, more organic water anywhere. Well, up until the frogs started dying in it.

I’ll tell you what’s happening to them – but don’t read this bit whilst trying to eat breakfast: It starts with their back legs …the skin changes from greeny-brown to a spotted light-blue, and at the same time the limb begins to dissolve until nothing of them is left but the skin – empty, like a miniature pair of spotted pyjama-bottoms swaying about in the current. But get this: at that stage they are still ALIVE. The front half of them remains healthy right up until the moment when the disease reaches the anus and their digestive tract, then everything just sort of comes undone. Only then do they peg it still with the torso propped up on a healthy pair of front legs, right at the waters-edge, head and eyes popping out above, as though they were relaxing before going for another underwater swim when the sun gets too hot. Which probably won’t be any time soon.

The people from Glasgow University sent their specimen away to London. The people in London wrote back to say it was ‘Otter-predation’. And they know a thing or two down there, in Regents Park …about Otters. Apparently the Otters were gently unzipping the leg skin without harming the torsos, eating the little leggies out of them, and then releasing the newly paraplegic frogs to get on with the rest of their lives as best as they could. Which was an eye-opener for me because whenever I’ve seen an Otter eating something I’ve been shocked by the blood-lust and brutality with which they kill things. It makes King Herod look like Mother Theresa – honestly it does.

Otter Predation. Imagine – people get paid for that kind of thing.  Are you allowed a second opinion if you’re not happy with the diagnosis of your dead frog?

If you happen to have a degree in amphibious diseases; or you’re a keen amateur; or you’re not scientific in any way but you used to enjoy watching the Muppetts, and you’ve got an idea of what it could be – I’d love to hear from you. Only my tea is beginning to taste a bit funny.

Justin is an unwilling adventurer

 

Holiday of a lifetime…?

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Holiday of a lifetime...?

Last year we accidentally spent an evening in a caravan park entertainment facility in Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland, where static caravans – thousands of the buggers, all in rows – are let by the week …those which are not cherished second-homes. We wouldn’t have missed it for worlds.

Driving through the gates it was alarming to see the conditions in which some people take an annual holiday …the shaven-headed security-guards were polite so that I was choked with remorse for ever having been afraid of them. The first room in the complex was filled with the buzzers and sirens of one-arm bandits pumped by desperate-looking men. The second, the restaurant, was a huge child-friendly affair in which it was heart-warming to see what liberty the children enjoyed as they climbed over tables with food hanging from their mouths …it was like a come-as-you-please party at Wayne and Waynetta’s – and judging by the carpet we’d only just missed a bloody-good bun-fight.

We sat down at a table in which the previous diners had whiled away their long wait for service by drawing amusing faces in the grease using their fingers. The waitress handed us each a sticky menu listing four or five dishes incapable of disappointing. When she noticed the grease-drawings she seemed genuinely shocked that people of our age could be so childish. With that she lost all patience with us and stood tapping her pad with the end of her pen to let us know that we seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to read a menu only four items long; and had better things to do than idle her life away with us. It was diverting to imagine that she was someone’s daughter …and that she would one day marry, and make someone very miserable.

Two cinema screens competed for our attention, the first was reminiscing on the 100 best goals this season – it wasn’t one of your moody, dull-and-dusty, quiet reminiscences: in between shouting himself so hoarse the only the word you could recognise was: ‘GOAL!!!’ …that commentator was weeping real tears – the other screen was filled with penguins singing rock-ballads.

In the third room -The Cabaret Suite – the bar was illuminated with UV tube-lighting causing everything to glow with Persil whiteness. Down a few steps there was a dance floor; above that a fluffy pink-stage surrounded by coloured light bulbs which turned themselves on and off in a mexican wave – and with commanding views over all, a horse-shoe arrangement of tables at which blokes wearing string vests held not pint’s – but Vases filled with lager, in hands the size of shovels. They were hard-looking men whose heads and torsos had con-joined like overfilled Mr. Grumpy balloons – opposite them, malnourished wives, and face-painted children wearing wings, tails and halo’s. The women had gone to lengths to dress-up and wore pomagne-cocktails of frocks - not available on the high street – which flowed-ever with bustle …and set them off with plastic Tiaras. They were dark haired women with pretty eyes which concealed a secret. And when they hit that dance floor they looked as though they’d been sitting perfectly still for an hour, and now had only three minutes in which to enjoy themselves.

The cabaret singer was surprisingly good, a Buble-style crooner who made you wonder what on earth he was doing here. Dressed like one of those loveable-ragamuffin porcelains you see in the Prize Cabinet of a Bingo Hall – he wore a Trilby tipped down over the eyes, baggy cavalry-twill trousers ending in turn ups, white socks and shoes. His second song answered the question of how he came to be here  …it sounded identical to the first – as did the third, and by song four – also identical – he was boo-ed off stage.

Boo-ed off stage, for christ’s sake – were they mad? …Talk about cutting your nose to spite your face - what the f–k are we going to do for a singer now? …all the way out here; at short notice …and at this time of the night?  It was humiliating for the crooner, and you somehow wanted to make it all right for him – if you or I had been boo-ed off that stage, by that audience, we’d have said to ourselves: ‘ That is the LAST effing-time I ever walk on a stage in my LIFE!’ If he managed to get away clutching one last shred of dignity – the Entertainment Manager took it from him with her next breath: a blonde-haired woman of about 30 she rushed onto the stage to head-off the growing rebellion dressed in Ostrich Feathers, and looking like a pink candy-floss; ‘Come on – Clap!’ she bawled at us; ‘ …he wasn’t THAT bad!’

Just a thought: If you live in West Kensington and have just tossed aside the usual pile of holiday brochures tediously filled with the selections of Nile Cruises; Kenyan Safaris; or Pilgrimages to Angkor Wat – why not stay at home this year for a holiday which really does offer something for everyone? Fill your boots.

Justin is author of Phoenix from the Ashes, an accidental adventure…

 

For people who love the sea, at Christmas…

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Caol Ila's Bowsprit

Lay-up Mooring

Earlier in the year one of the Whisky Distilleries here on the Isle of Islay had an open day and invited me to be one of their attractions: they suggested I park my sailing boat at their pier, invite their guests on board for a ‘wee nozzy’, and set up a table-sale of my artwork, and book on the pier head. I knew I’d find it humiliating.

I took it as a bad sign when less than a minute into the voyage to bring my boat to them I hit a rock …mounted it actually.

At the show I set up my display with a growing sense of shame; for an hour no one walked onto the pier, then came the moment I’d been dreading – a visitor. It’s very generous of her, I thought, to come out of her way – but I hope she makes short work of it, looks through my prints, says something kind, and then moves on.

As she approached, I sauntered away …well, she didn’t want me breathing down her neck – did she? She put her bag down on my un-manned table, and when our eyes met, called a cheery ‘hello’.

She looked through my prints one by one. My stomach churned – had she nothing better to do?

‘Where did you draw this scene?’ she asked holding one up. I told her …I even managed to stop myself from apologising for it in some way.

‘I like them all,’ she told me, ‘…but particularly this one.’ She held it close-to, then far away, back and forth; before finally getting out her purse. ‘Yes! – this is the one I’ll have, I think..’

I wanted to say to her: ‘Listen, you don’t have to do this.’

But if I didn’t stop her from buying it I’d be able to answer the inevitable after-show enquiries with the words: ‘Yes – as a matter of fact someone bought a picture.’

I was just giving her some change when a Japanese man purposed up to my table and began flicking through the prints. He bought two. And by the time he left with his pictures, and his change, and had had his picture taken with me and his friends; a small crowd had formed. Arms reached in from all directions grabbing prints, and copies of my book. Not only that, but so it continued for the rest of the day. It was a sell-out; it was thrilling, and immensely encouraging, too.

At the risk of cheesing my story – I notice that it’s nearly christmas, the time when we all buy shed-loads of interesting pressies for each other – if you know someone who’d like one of my mounted Maritime Limited-Edition Prints – which are £48, normally – tell me which one you like, and I’ll send it to you for £29 – including UK postage. The quality of the ink and paper remains the same ‘collectors’ standard. Hmmm, sounds interesting. Overseas, postage may be another fiver or so, by air mail.

And if that’s not what you’re looking for – I’ve got a Weimaraner you can have for nothing; and I’ll pay the postage on him to anywhere in the world.

T5PZXCCR7V8Q

 

Hebridean Bandit in the house.

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When I woke up this morning there was a ferret in the house – well, what I thought was a ferret.

Yesterday there was one outside the window – for about an hour. Even so you couldn’t get a good view of it because for most of that time it had its head stuck inside the chest cavity of a dead Hare. The Hare had died a few days earlier, and although I had noticed it; as the days rolled past I felt increasingly disinclined to go and pick it up. Well, you don’t like to, do you?

And in any case it had been raining hard for days – and then on the first dry day when I could have picked it up, I noticed flies taking off from it, practising for an air show, so I didn’t like to disturb them in case I caused an accident.

That ferret was huge.

Anyway, this morning I was just in the utility room feeding the dog when I noticed some strange droppings. Scooter the dog is a Weimaraner – Weimaraner’s have the most sensitive noses on the planet …It’s a little known fact, but ya Weimaraner can detect the presence of a pigs-ear doggy-snack even when it has been welded inside a lead box and thrown into 100ft of murky water.

So I was slightly puzzled when he showed no interest in the droppings. But then I remembered the other thing about the Weimaraner …the other thing about the Weimaraner is that as soon as the lid comes off the doggy-cruckle bin all five senses immediately vacate the body so as not to get damaged whilst the frenzied corpse goes into epileptic spasms of excitement, and return only hesitantly to it after the bowl is empty.

When ‘Smell’ had decided to reinvest the corpse with its powers – Scooter went straight over to the droppings, and then followed the footsteps (invisible to the human eye) of the creature that had deposited them onto my floor – whether because it had suddenly found itself caught short, or as a personal slight to me, history will probably never learn – out into the next room and to a heap of Linda’s horse-grooming equipment. Having got to it Scooter stopped and ‘pointed’, as much as to say the creature that has incomoded you is sitting under that horse blanket (Weimaraner’s are very Dickensian in their speech patterns) …remove for me that blanket, square away, and I shall obtain the retribution you seek – right down to the last squeak.

Before I could remove the blanket, as instructed, Scooter shot backwards and went around to the other side of a partition wall, and at the same time I remembered that there was a hole in the wall down there, which had been made by a diligent plumber who had every intention of preventing the house from flooding by running an overflow pipe through it one fine day before he retired – but happily he is not yet even sixty; has time on his side, and so the hole remains: through it, the intruder made good his escape …and Scooter saw him go. But he only got as far as the next room.

You know those fishing nets you can buy for children in seaside Toy and Novelty shops – the ones mounted on a bamboo pole, with a wire hoop, and some green netting? Well, one of those was amongst the toot bequeathed to us by the previous tenants, and this morning it made it’s very first catch.

I put the ferret – or whatever it was – into a big plastic tub, threw in some sawdust so that it had something nice to lie back on, and then waited for my farmer/neighbour to pop by – as he does everyday- to see my zoo. He took one look at it, declared it was a Pole-Cat, and then proposed we train it to hunt rabbit, and keep us in rabbit-stew for the rest of our natural lives.

I wanted here to ask you – I wanted to run a little opinion poll – I was going to ask you what you thought I should do with it, and kick things off by positing three possible courses of action; viz -

1/ Drown it.  2/ Drive it a long way from the house, and restore its freedom. 3/ Keep it as a pet and use it for ferreting-out rabbits so that me and my neighbour can enjoy the economic advantages of a sharp reduction in butchers bills.

I was going to run that little opinion poll – but one of my blog-responders who appears on these pages; and who lives in a church overrun with rats, mice, cats, rabbits, bats, owls, and cockroaches – and doesn’t dream of carrying out a little discreet pest control – caught a whiff of my plan and threatened to have me thrown into prison if I hurt a hair on its head.

So I’ve decided that its best chance of success can be secured by dropping it off at her place.

Phoenix from the Ashes has been shortlisted for the Mountbatten Maritime Award.

Blind helping the blind.

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'Blind' Dog - fraudster

On a walk, if there are no hares to chase, Scooter amuses himself by provoking bulls and then stands behind me for protection when things turn nasty. I’ve saved him from drowning; stopped him from trying to eat an Adder, twice; and carried him in my arms back down from the upper branches of a tree, where he felt certain a squirrel lived …and what thanks do I get? He tip-toes upstairs at 3am, pulls me from my bed to the floor, asleep, then hops up into the warmth of the new vacancy.

A couple of months ago he got me banned from Falmouth, in Cornwall.

Walking with him down the High Street, I was hoping to get him back to our friends’ garden – with whom we were staying – before he could defecate. Linda’s better prepared than I am and always carries a pocketful of plastic bags so that she can poop and scoop. Well – so that she can scoop, - I think even she would draw the line at performing both jobs.

Anyway Scooter suddenly did that little dance with his back legs which lets you know you’ve got less than a second to drag him to a gutter. I must have dragged him pretty fast because I noticed little puffs of smoke coming from the pads of his feet as our wills battled it out.  Whilst he performed I stood there patting my pockets pretending to look for a bag I knew I didn’t have; and on finding that I didn’t have it, feigned confusion and wonder about what I would do next. Suddenly something caught my eye.

In an alleyway leading off the High Street there was one of those newspaper-round canvas bags which paper-boys dump when they can’t be arsed to deliver their papers – but this one (ideally for my purpose) was mounted on a frame and wheels (leading me to conclude that the paper-boy was in his eighties, and probably lying nearby having died of exhaustion). Scooter was smiling and kicking up dust with his hind feet in that curious way that dogs do when they’ve just performed, as if to say: …now deal with that! - when I dragged him to the sack, hooked the wheel end of the frame over his head, and took the other end by it’s handle.

Ping! Instantly he looked like a guide-dog whose training had been sponsored by the Western Morning News.  In this guise I saw the glowering looks of shop owners and customers alike melt to sympathy; and completed the ensemble by slipping a pair of dark glasses over my eyes, and began tapping the pavement, side to side, with a length of dowel I’d just bought. The dowel was the master-stroke. I think I would have been willing to pay double for it had I known what service it would be to me …way beyond any use I could give it as a craftsman. In that manner we floated buoyantly along on the swelling pity of passers-by.

The only downside to the scheme was that I now had to go where Scooter wanted to go: First he visited a pillar supporting an awning outside WH Smith, then another which he peed on; then he called at each of the remaining three to see if they had been visited by anyone he knew. Some chance, 500 miles from home. After that he spotted another guide-dog – a real one this time – across the road and ran over to it straight into the path of a taxi which screeched to a halt, nearly killing both of us. The taxi driver wanted to say something about it all until he saw my glasses and dowel; then he climbed reluctantly back into his cab, mute with pity.  For more than a minute me and the grey-haired blind woman who owned the other dog – which in spite of its honeyed-looks could fight as savagely as any Pit-Bull – pointed our visages toward the sky, and thrashed our sticks wildly, demanding to know what was going on. During the chaos I stole a glance at Scooter, took aim, and separated he and the other dog by giving him a winding kick to his back side. There was such heartfelt power in that kick, such purpose, that he travelled through the air and a moment later I, still holding the frame, followed him.

Out of that tangle, we weaved back and forth across the street like a pair of drunks trying to remember which pubs had, and which pubs hadn’t banned us; then we fell through a bush and landed in a car park where a delightful-looking young woman came up to me, politely announcing her presence by clearing her throat, got me to my feet and asked if there was anything she could do to help. Her innocent smile, and the twinkling sincerity in her eyes conquered me. I would have given worlds to spend longer in her company and began casting about for something to say:

‘I’m trying to find my car.’ I told her.

‘What colour is it?’

Cars are very dull-looking these days – ten or fifteen years ago they were painted in primary colours with different patterns of polka dots to distinguish them one from another – pretty soon manufacturers realized in their droves that if they painted their cars dull-grey they would stick out like sore thumbs, with the result that these days they are all painted dull-grey …the exception to this rule was a yellow mini I noticed in my periphery vision:

‘It’s a yellow mini.’ I said.  She looked around the car park;

‘Is it that one over there?’ She asked, pointing.

‘What – just in front of the BMW?’

‘Yes.’ she said.

‘That’s the one …would you mind taking my hand and leading me over to it?’

We arrived at it all too quickly; I wasn’t ready to lose her attention:

‘Now then, I’m very keen – eager even – not to put you to any further trouble …but would you happen to have a key for it?’

‘No.’ she said, blinking; ‘I haven’t.’

‘Have you lost it?

‘No,’ she said, ‘you didn’t give it to me.’

‘In that case I must ask you’, said I,  ’…if you have ever broken into a vehicle and hot-wired it?’

‘No.’

‘Well then, would you like to see how it’s done?’

She looked nervous, and backed away a step – but I only asked because I’d noticed that Scooter had somehow managed to get into the vehicle, and was rummaging around under the steering column with some wires in his hand.

It was just then that I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a uniformed officer. He asked me if this was my vehicle; to save confusion I told him it was. He asked me if I was blind; and again, to save a long story I told him I was. Then he arrested me for failing to park in a disabled bay.

You’ll be relieved to hear that I’m out of prison now, and working on the sequel to Phoenix from the Ashes.

Olympians flock to the Hebrides…

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That was my sis, on the phone.  You know, my twin sis – the one whose Birthday I always forget.

Although we are separated by hundreds of thousands of miles we like to stay in touch via the baked-bean cans and piece of string supplied by our service provider. I think it’s important to keep up with family news, and so don’t begrudge the hour or more it takes to hear about all the things that haven’t happened to her; and to tell her about all the things I was hoping would be achieved at this end, but weren’t.

There were a lot of tears, here, when the Olympic torch passed within 104 miles of our island. Tears of joy, I mean. Whether that was because it came so close, or remained so far away, I can’t tell.  I don’t think anyone can.

But it set off a kind of Olympic hysteria that you are probably too reserved to show on the mainland: at one stage hardly a month went by without the word Olympic being used.

The egg and spoon race was hotly contested by residents of the nursing home. There were no winners there.  There were no finishers, actually. A woman from West Kensington asked Matron if they were free-range, but Matron said ‘No’ – for her liking they didn’t go out often enough.

A tossing-the-sheep competition was mounted by the young farmers – it turned out to be not nearly as dubious as the name promised – so there was a lot of disappointment amongst the ever-dwindling audience …many of whom were professional sheep-groomers.

They had a drinking-race in the Ardmore Inn. Actually they have drinking races in the Ardmore every night – but not with that same sense of Doing it for Britain. The sad result of their selflessness was that there were three deaths in the bar that night – whereas you’d normally only expect one or two.

We had a fantastic closing ceremony. Fat Freddie and his Inter-Gallactic Pram-Rocket was the highlight – I believe everyone on the island turned out to see that …though there were grumblings about the height he attained – especially when you think how much petrol we all contributed; at island prices. When you donate £1.50/litre on the promise that Fat Freddie is going to Mars and won’t be coming back, it must contravene some law or other if that promise isn’t fulfilled.  But for speed you couldn’t beat it – it’ll be a long time before any of us see another pram with fly-squash on its leading edges. And it did – it looked like a bloody comet. I think if we put our hands on our hearts, not many of us thought he’d make it to the next island – so I think there were mixed feelings when we got the call from the Hospital in Cuba.

Everything after that was a bit of an anti-climax. Hamish set fire to his farts – though that happens every time he falls asleep with a fag in his mouth. There were some German tourists in the bar who don’t normally find farting, they told us – or anything else for that matter – funny, but wiping tears from their eyes they assured us that that, for them, will always remain a golden example of the subtlety of British humour …and they doubted to-a-man whether they would live long enough to see anything funnier.

And as for Maude Grave singing ‘I wanna have your babies’ – that was never likely to succeed …but she wouldn’t listen.

I notice that there’s a damning review for my book on Amazon – it wasn’t you, was it? Even if you gave me permission to remove it, I think I’d keep it for the perspective it adds to all those good ones.

But I’m confused – I can be fairly sure that the events described in my book took place because I was there, in person – yet I am aware that we interpret what we see about us, and that two people witnessing the same event tell different stories about what happened …so I don’t want to get too anal – but could you have a look at that withering review and let me know if she (or he) is on to something I haven’t spotted?

Jesus, she’ll be telling me I’m wrong about the closing ceremony next…

Justin’s brilliantly entertaining, international best-selling book Phoenix from the Ashes is desperate for your support. Could you make a point of stopping strangers in the street to tell them how much you enjoyed it? If you are a do-gooder, this will count toward your five-a-day random acts of generosity …and if you harbour any religious convictions, a place in heaven will be reserved for you for every recommendation of yours which results in a sale. I personally don’t profit from the book – but it does help Bloomsbury keep their heads above water. And I know that’s cause we can all get behind.

It’s stress… but not as you know it.

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The Stressful Hebridean islands.

I love shopping in the Hebrides.  It’s all part of the lifestyle.

I was down at the Co, as we call it, standing third in line at the checkout having browsed the empty shelves and had almost half the things I’d come in for.

I was just running through which were the best-stocked bird-tables between there and home, in my mind, when I noticed that the Gentleman being served was elderly, in poor health, and wasn’t responding to stimulus. We’re all going to be there one day. So I smiled, congratulated myself on how patient I can be if I really try, and then, as the minutes ticked by, began chalking off the things I was hoping to get done later in the day… the dentist; the bank; the intercontinental flight I had to catch… and let them go, one by one.

Fifteen minutes later my body went into torpor – a kind of precursor to Coma, and shortly afterwards I lost the will to live. I became merely one of the statues in the queue, but with the last few electronic impulses of brain activity reviewed, with painful regret, the ambitions I had for my life that will never now be achieved.

Suddenly I was wakened…

‘Thank you! Bye! Take care now!’

…by the exaggerated cheerfulness of the cashier. There’s hope! the queue is about to move up one – and I’m still alive; I remember thinking. Before making way for the next shopper, our man had a five pound note to put back in his wallet…  but where on earth can that wallet be? ‘I had it a minute ago’, you could see him thinking, as he patted his pockets. There was nothing for it but to unpack the shopping, whilst examining with some surprise, one or two of the items therein, and wondering how they got there.

‘Is this yours?’ someone asked, bending to the floor behind him.

No reply; a third person taps him on the arm, and points behind him. He looks; there is no one there.

‘Mm?’ Points again… looks  - suddenly there is someone there. Right up close. Whoa – overload! Our shopper is now struggling to take in everything that is happening around him in what war journalists know as ‘a fast-developing situation’.

We queuers, without speaking, urge him to look at the wallet. We can’t move, not now, it’s been too long.

‘Is this yours?’ the voice asks again. He looks:

‘Mmm?’

‘Is this yours?’

He looks at it. ‘No.’ he says, definitely.

Then he looks at it again, anew. ‘Oh yes! – Yes it is!’

Collective laughter, and the elderly gentleman meets everyone’s eyes to acknowledge what fun we are all having together.

‘Where did you find it?’ He asks, out of casual interest, whilst checking that she hasn’t rifled it.

‘On the floor.’

‘I must have dropped it!’

The very conclusion we were about to arrive at ourselves.

At length he says good-bye to all his new friends –  checks he has everything both by carrying out a visual examination of the surrounding area five times, and by interviewing everyone as to whether or not they are of the opinion that he has everything… and, at last, asks to be directed to the exit he is standing next to. Gone.

The next customer, of course, does not rush to fill his place – it would seem rude. Instead she pretends to be busy examining the nutritional information panel on a bottle of bleach. Looking up, with an exclamation of surprise she finds that she is next; and, as if by magic, the cashier is ready for her.

She and the cashier are of a similar age – both in their sixties – the customer leans confidentially in toward the cashier;

‘I haven’t been at all well;’ she whispers, gravely.

‘Och, that’s terrible!’ Says the cashier unable to hide her delight: ‘…this is more like it!…’ I could see her thinking to herself…  ’This is why I took the job!’

She throws a furtive glance in my direction to see how important I am; and having laid that concern to rest, leaned forward, made herself comfortable onto the belt, and settled down to hear the exact nature of the illness in question, and to allow their hair-do’s to have a bit of a tangle and really get to know each another.

For ten minutes I and the folk behind me gaze longingly at the unmanned cash desks. No one speaks. We hear to the muffled whispering; notice the accusatory glances in our direction to make sure we’re not eaves-dropping; and have our suicidal despair punctuated every minute or so by an encouraging ’Och, that’s terrible!’ from the Cashier.

‘No, that really is terrible, that is!

At last the shopper – who had so much more to say – turns to me with a resentful sniff: ‘I’m holding you back.’ she says. It’s a favourite saying – and I’ve never worked out if it is a question, an apology, or simply a statement of fact… but the expected answer – which you have to supply if you want to get on on the island – and which I found myself giving, is: ‘No, you’re alright.’

I am now back at home and responding well to treatment – but tell me: Do you have the same thing in Fortnum and Mason… those of you who live in West Kensington?

Justin.

Jesus – all those words and I never found a way to mention my  book.

 

 

My journey back to 1984…

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The view from George Orwell’s window

We’ve just come back from that house on the Isle of Jura where George Orwell wrote 1984. Can you tell?  Has some of his brilliance rubbed off on me?

The house is so isolated and hard to reach that even the road gives up four miles short of his door. From there, you either have to walk, pushing your belongings ahead of you in a wheelbarrow, or, if you want to arrive a bit more stylishly, get your wife to push. For those of you who live in West Kensington and don’t own a wheelbarrow, ask your pilot to fly you in and give him this grid reference: NR 705 970. Land in the front garden if you can because some of the slates are loose.

Once indoors you’ll find that everything is just as he left it in 1949… even his pipe is still smouldering on the arm of a sofa. Ashton’s Consummate Gentleman – ready-rubbed, unless my nose deceived me.

My first confusion was in ratifying the view from his writing window with the oppressive Big Brother regime he described whilst staring out of it; hammering out each letter on a manual typewriter… and if you look closely at the photograph above you’ll see that the deer are still trying to puzzle it out today.

The house is large, comfortable and shabby. The kitchen lacks nothing the traditional English cook would expect to find, right down to a trussing needle – essential equipment if you’ve arrived with hopes of stuffing a really big bird.  A noisy generator fires-up whenever a light is turned on. The wind whistles around the windows and under the doors. The kitchen is heated by a coal-fired Rayburn… there’s a coal-fired stove in the lounge; the remainder of the house is un-heated – yet warm and cosy… and coal is in unlimited supply, needing only to be ferried by scuttle from an out-building. The bed was damp, but you didn’t notice it after ten minutes. Speaking for myself, though, I would always be a summer visitor.

Outside, the unspoiled ‘go-anywhere’ walking and the scenery is as generously abundant as you expect in the highlands of Scotland. A first walk might be to the Corryvreckan – one of the worlds great natural whirlpools. In fact, if ever you find yourself in the position whereby you’ve murdered someone who was getting on your nerves, book a week at Hillbarn, and make it your first walk: carry the body over your shoulder, under cover of darkness, along to the whirlpool and pop them in.  There’s no telling where the body will turn up, and you may well get off scott-free. But be careful not to fall in yourself or you’ll miss out on some of the other very attractive walks.

There are so many deer on Jura that the 200 people who live there form an ethnic minority.  I’ve heard that there are 8,000 deer – but all I know is that if you stand anywhere in Devon you’ll see sheep, and if you stand anywhere on Jura you’ll see deer. That’s all very well for eleven months of the year, but in October, during the rut, their moods change and they become very aggressive. I’m talking about the deer now, not the sheep.

Just in case you’ve ever wondered – the iconic black and white photograph I use as the header for my blog is of Jura islanders John Macgregor and Katie Buie – I’m not sure when the photo was taken but Katie Buie died in 1917 at the age of 80.

I don’t know what it is I love about Jura – the list is almost endless – but above all it’s a place where you can relax; let ya hair down; and allow your eccentricities room to breath… after putting on my Austrian Leiderhosen – which so rarely sees the light of day – I popped into the pub and stood in the corner for a quiet drink when someone was kind enough to ask me if I was enjoying myself:

‘VEE LOFF JURA! YAH!’ (I was shouting to aid translation) THE PEOPLE ISS FRENLY – AND I LEAF MY BAG HERE ALREADY SREE HOURS AND NO ONE TOUCH! YOU DON’T HAVE TO CARE ABOUT DAT!

Are you from West Kensington?  they asked.
Justin
Have you read my fascinating book by any chance?

…crunchier than a stack of poppadums

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Squat Lobster with Home-made Mayonnaise

If, like me, the current economic climate has renewed your interest in spring cleaning down the back of your sofa in the hope of finding a penny dropped in some un-remembered season of abundance, you’ll love this week’s money-saving recipe.

Using only the finest delicacies fished up from the crystal waters of the North Atlantic ocean which lap these Hebridean shores – may I present Squat Lobster Salad, dressed with a home-made Olive Oil Mayonnaise?

If you happen to know a fisherman, preferably a crabber – and I realise that the chances of this are but small if you live in West Kensington – ask him not to throw back the Squat Lobsters which come up in his pots and are merely a by-catch for him; a nuisance that crawls its way into his wheelhouse, tea caddy, and the trouser-pocket of his apron, unless he chucks them overboard before they get a chance to make themselves at home. He’ll be happy to put them by for you – particularly if you are willing to barter with him for something you may happen to have in abundance… say: some award-winning vegetables; a bottle of your finest home-brew; or (as in my case) five minutes of sarcastic wit.

Even consider paying for them if you have to, but once you own them, throw them heartlessly into a cauldron of vigorously boiling water into which some ginger, onion, garlic, celery, star-anise, fennel, salt or pepper… or all of the above… have already been sacrificed; for three minutes. Strain, and allow to cool in a soft summer breeze, out of the reach of rats.

Now comes the tricky part.  When I went to school, most classifications of animal subordinate to man consisted of a head, a thorax, and an abdomen – though creatures are constantly evolving and animals may not still consist of those same body-parts today… but if they do, and you remove the head and the thorax, you’ll find yourself left holding a segmented, armour-plated tail which looks and (as you are about to find out) tastes like a wood louse.

Inside this tail you’ll see a tempting morsel of flesh which you will be filled with the most urgent ambition to consume.  At the break, you’ll find about a quarter of an inch (now evolved into 6mm) of flesh is sticking out from the shell. (There will be a small quantity of unpleasant-looking grey-brown liquid adhering to it which I presume came from its stomach, but I am not going to draw your attention to that for fear of spoiling your appetite… I mention it merely to identify which end we’re talking about.) What I do is to take that fleshy bit gently between my teeth, ignoring the colour, and softly tug at the shell with my fingers – it comes away surprisingly easily… usually. When you’ve removed it, dip it into the home-made mayonnaise, and pop it back into your mouth.  You will have one of those out-of-the-body experiences whereby you acknowledge that if the good Lord took you right now, you would die happy knowing that you had nothing worthwhile left on earth to achieve.

If you live in West Kensington, ask your Butler to pull this morsel of flesh out for you – but get him to use a cocktail stick rather than his teeth, otherwise he’ll be unable to resist the temptation, swallow the very morsel you were hoping to get, and you’ll face the choice of either starving-to-death, embittered, and resentful; or slumming-it on something from Harrod’s food hall.

Next week we’ll take a fresh look at the common or garden snail.

Justin