A final piece of business

The newest committee to be formed in the village comes together at the hotel lounge for its first meeting. Tea and coffee is set out. This is quite nerve-wracking for me as this will be crunch time, when I learn whether my project will be embraced by the main business owners in the village, whose support will be crucial to its success.

My agenda reads:

Item 1 - ‘Is this a good idea?’

If yes, continue to Items 2-6.

If no, repair to the bar.

I am pleased to report that Item 1 is swiftly dealt with and the meeting continues on for a further two hours, only breaking up when Martyn has to repair to the bar on official business – to compete on his darts team.

For such a small village, it is intriguing that on our committee no one knew everyone, but everyone knew someone. By the end of the evening, networking is well underway, new business relationships forming and there is an air of enthusiasm about developing this opportunity to promote the community.

As Polly says, we are a hidden gem – it’s just that we don’t want to be quite so hidden. But neither, a cautionary voice warns, do we want to be overrun with tourists. A hidden gem needs to maintain some of the very qualities that makes it a hidden gem.

There is much to be done, but it is exciting to see people with like-minded objectives exchange views and be keen to work together. Sadly, many in small communities such as ours are often concerned that sharing information with competitors will be their downfall, not realising that a strong united voice will be much louder and more effective and ultimately bring benefits for many. Thankfully, this group who have agreed wholeheartedly to be involved in this project bring big thinking and a wealth of local knowledge.

“We have to be very careful when we promote ourselves internationally,” says Ian.

“For example, stalking means something quite different in America.”

Ah, yes, we wouldn’t want to be considered a group of perverts, now would we?

“And Czechs never shoot, they hunt.”

Aside from stalking and shooting there’s bungee jumping, canyoning, white water rafting, fishing, hiking, climbing, golf, skiing and après-ski such as whisky distilleries and real ale pubs to explore.

We need to be conscious of conflicting interests. John’s quad bike riders will need to stay away from the deer hunting grounds. Not just because a stray bullet could be, well, fatal, but there are conservation issues to consider.

Roles are divvied up. Our constitution is agreed. Next steps decided upon.

Finally, we repair to the bar, Items 2-6 all completed – and I have a tentative footprint in the village; a reason to return.

But first, I must pay my newspaper bill and say farewell to Bob. Should I kiss his cheek au revoir and risk rekindling the village rumours? Or will I thrust out my hand, business-like, to shake his and risk offending him by my lack of affection? Or merely smile cheerily and wave goodbye as I back out of the post office?

Social mores, in a village, are very complicated.

Uisge beathe gu leor! (Whisky Galore)

Whisky Galore, the musical, is playing at Pitlochry Theatre. Dawn was one of the first to snaffle up tickets for the first night when they went on sale.

“It’s absolutely marvellous,” she says when she invites me as her guest, together with Jeanette and Gordon.

“It was here three years ago, and I saw it twice.” She plans to see it twice during this run too. Next weekend she has invited her old pal, Jimmy.

“He’s never ever been to the theatre!” she says. “Fancy that!

“So I haven’t told him what we are doing in case he won’t come. I’ve just said to dress up smartly.”

Jeanette, Gordon and I are quick to take the hint.

“I’ve told Gordon he’s to wear a tie and jacket,” says Jeanette. We are standing in their shed, admiring the work of Gordon and their son Stuart to restore an antique Wolseley car. They are in work gear, looking oily and dishevelled, but revelling in their painstaking work to bring back to its former glory this ancient vehicle, one of only 160 ever to be made.

Stuart is fanatical about Wolseleys and is planning to write a book about them. I think my grandfather owned one and I have promised to see if our family albums can yield any photographs. This beauty he had shipped from California. Claims that it was one of the Duke of Gloucester’s fleet turned out to be spurious, but it has not dampened his enthusiasm for its restoration.

I marvel at the original headlamps which look like something the Gestapo might have turned on enemy agents to winkle out their secrets; the wooden indicators – yellow at the front, red at the back; the enormous horn that sits proudly next the headlamps; and the original spare tin of oil, nestled in its holder under the bonnet. I look fondly at the running board, remembering as a child that this was a feature I particularly liked about cars.

Gordon, childlike, can’t resist winding out the windscreen.

“A unique way of getting fresh air, and letting in the rain!” he says. Ah, they don’t make them like this anymore.

Jeanette has plans to hire out the Wolseley to take brides to church. She is already in demand as a celebrant.

“We can do the whole package. Gordon will drive the bridal party to church. I’ll take the service. We’ll have a marquee on the lawn and they can rent your cottage for their honeymoon!”

As the Wolseley is still largely in pieces, with no seats or roof, some rotten wood beams and ironwork that need replacing and the bodywork variously painted green, blue or replaced with new parts, I think the wedding venture is a little way off.

Gordon duly scrubs up and appears, handsome in his tie, to drive us to the theatre in his not quite so grand Land Rover.

Whisky Galore is quintessentially Scottish. I know this before the curtain rises because my program contains an extensive glossary of Gaelic terms. Everything from: “Halo, de an t-ainm a tha oirbh?” (Hello, what’s your name?) to “An lamb a bheir, ‘s i a gheibh” (The hand that gives is the hand that gets). Fortunately, I am a regular opera-goer so I am used to watching performances where I understand not one word.

It is set on a remote Scottish island during World War Two. The crux of the story is that the island has run out of whisky, which is of course a drama in itself, and the effects of this take up most of Act I. But then – just before interval – a ship runs aground with several cases of Uisge beatha (water of life, aka whisky). During Act II the islanders smuggle the whisky all over the island and take pains to avoid the Excise man discovering their contraband. There are various love interest sub-plots for any teetotallers or minors in the audience.

The business rattles along at a fair pace. The actors are a multi-talented lot – they each sing, dance and play traditional instruments. Father MacAlister, aside from swigging back a lot of hooch to the traditional Gaelic toast of ‘Slainte mhath’ (pronounced slangjeevar), plays the saxophone, whistle, flute, bodhran, guitar, mandolin, jaw harp and finally – when we thought there could be no more evidence of the man’s talents – the bagpipes.

The only slight hiccough to the production is that many of the leading men are short. Not just a little short. But really quite short short.

Captain Waggett struts convincingly about, reminding one of that famous height-challenged comedian Ronnie Corbett. But it takes some imagination to truly believe that tall, buxom Catriona MacLeod will really fall for diminutive George Campbell who hardly reaches her shoulder. For their final passionate embrace he stands on a case of whisky. At least the director has a sense of humour.

“Do you think Jimmy will enjoy it?” asks Dawn.

If his Gaelic is up to snuff, I feel he will love every whisky-soaked moment.

Mattress stitch

It may be time for me to leave the village. I have achieved the highest accolade and mark of recognition possible. There is nothing left for me to aspire to. It all began one quiet, rainy afternoon …….

At Clicking Needles, I sit quietly sewing my almost-finished cardigan together. It is a tricky matter to set the sleeves in ‘just-so’, and it requires all my concentration. I let the chatter buzz around me.

“Apparently, it may not be my hat after all that Dougie McLean is touring with,” says Theresa.

We are all very disappointed to hear this because Theresa’s hat was going to make our knitting group – and Theresa – famous.

“Never mind,” says Jean, “because my house is about to be famous.”

It seems a TV production company is interested in unusual renovations, and the producer has asked Jean if they can film in her home.

“Did he just come and knock on your door to ask?” says Sylvia.

“Oh aye,” says Jean.

“Weren’t you worried when he wanted to look around your house that he might be an imposter?”

“Och nae,” says Jean.

Gillian says a strange man came to her house just this morning, asking where Mrs Smith lived.

“Which one? I asked,” says Gillian. “There are two Mrs Smiths around here. But he didna seem to know, or have an address.”

She says she double locked her door, just to be on the safe side.

“I didn’t like his look. Fancy not having an address.”

“Lots of people get addresses wrong, but somehow our mail always get delivered,” says Ann.

“When we just moved here we got a letter addressed to ‘Ann and David recently moved to Glenshee’ and it found us.”

“There’s a house near us called Innernightie,” cackles Glynnis. “Imagine having to tell people you live in a place called Innernightie! Where do you live? Innernightie!” She can’t stop laughing.

Sylvia leans across to look at what I’m doing.

“I’ve been watching you all afternoon,” she says. Oh dear, I think.

“That’s a very interesting way you are sewing up the seam, with the right side facing you.”

I explain to her that I always do it this way, and that – in fairness - I thought she had taught me this method.

“Oh no,” she says. “I always do it from the wrong side and just oversew.”

Glynnis leans across to see what all commotion is about.

“Oh my, that gives a very nice finish,” she says. “What do you call that?”

“Mattress stitch,” I say, somewhat mystified that this group of expert knitters is not familiar with it.

Then I remember where I learned it.

“I had a pattern some time ago that said to join the seams with mattress stitch. I didn’t know how to do it so I looked it up on YouTube.”

Theresa looked over my shoulder.

“So how do you do it?”

I lay my cardigan on the table and explain the stitch to her.

Then Sylvia and Glenys lean over the table.

“Can you show us too?”

Once more, I go through the steps for joining seams with mattress stitch. Then, just as I am about to pick up where I had stopped, Jean leans over.

“Could you show me?”

As I start to tell her, I become aware that every ear is listening intently and all eyes are on me, and I burst out laughing.

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be telling the ladies of Clicking Needles how to do something! That’s made my day,” I say, and I sit back, feeling more satisfied than if I had just won a big piece of business.

Two fat ladies

This morning I decide to visit a recently opened wool shop in a neighbouring town which has a big selection of fancy buttons, to find something suitably glamorous for the cardigan I have almost finished knitting.

I am a bit late setting out. Last night Gordon, Jeanette and I had dinner at Jackie and Charlie’s which was a gourmet evening, during which Charlie dug deep into his wine cellar.

Jackie is a former cookery teacher, so we know we will enjoy fine food. As she serves thin pancakes wrapped around cheese, rocket and prosciutto, Charlie produces a bottle of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc, which – to his amazement – he spied on the shelves of the new wine shop in Pitlochry.

“I grabbed it straightaway,” he says. “I couldna believe ma luck.”

You can purchase Cloudy Bay at another local wine merchant, says Charlie, but you are only allowed to buy three bottles at a time, so this new source of supply is a welcome find.

Charlie and I explain why Cloudy Bay is so special.

“It’s a bit like when people used to queue up to buy the latest release of Beaujolais Nouveau back in the 1970s,” he says.

“It’s developed its own hype.”

“Yes,” I say, “except that Beaujolais Nouveau always tasted pretty thin and foul. And you could buy it by the case.”

Next Charlie serves up a bottle of sauvignon blanc from Jackson Winery.

“This comes from just across the road from Cloudy Bay, but I think you’ll find it tastes quite different,” he informs us.

He is right. And it went very nicely with Jackie’s skewered prawns, mango salsa and mixed leaf salad (home grown from the garden).

Barely have we drained our glass of Jackson’s, when Charlie is extolling the virtues of his next choice – a Californian Geyserville Zinfandel from Ridge. In his view – and apparently in the view of many wine reviewers – the best zinfandel wine in the world.

Alongside Jackie’s tarte tatin (which is absolutely the best apple pie I have ever tasted, but fear not, I have asked for the recipe), this full-bodied red is delicious.

Next comes the cheese, and a large decanter of port.

In the time-honoured way, Charlie insists we pass the port around the table to our left.

“Do ye ken why the port is passed to the left?” he asks, rhetorically.

“If a man passed the port with his left hand, it meant he could keep his right hand on the hilt of his sword, in case any of his enemies took the opportunity to challenge him while he was distracted.”

Obviously, he wouldn’t just chuck the decanter of port in the face of his enemy would he? Why waste a good drop, when a quick swordfight across the dinner table would quickly despatch one of the duellers, and then the drinking could resume.

So, understandably, it was a slow start this morning, but by midday I am entering the portals of the wool shop with bated breath and hammering heart. The excitement of being let loose in this emporium stacked floor to ceiling with finest Aran, mohair, tweed, merino and silk in a dazzlingly array of colours sweeps aside any lingering sore head.

Two fat ladies sit on a sofa.

“Hello!” says the dark-haired one, as I walk in.

“Hello!” I say.

She looks at me, surprised. Then I notice she has the phone to her ear and is greeting her caller, not me.

The other lady, the brown-haired one, comes to help me choose my buttons. She looks at the three options I am considering.

“I like a bit of zing,” she says, picking the brightest one. “When something is hand-knitted, it should have zing.” I dare not argue, so I now have six blue and silver buttons ‘with zing’ for my cardigan.

Flicking through a pattern book I find the most darling jacket which requires to be knitted in the planet’s most expensive wool. The dark-haired lady coms to help me choose wools. Five colours are needed.

“Let’s look at all the colours,” she suggests, and pulls a sample of all the available colours – about twelve – off the shelf and we sit together on the floor, surrounded by balls of wool, trying out various combinations. After about thirty minutes, we finally make our decision. I have become a little peripheral to the choice, by this time, but I heartily approve her selection.

While I wait for a few heart-stopping moments while she checks she has enough skeins in stock, I notice the brown-haired lady is hand spinning wool at a wooden spinning wheel.

“That looks very restful,” I say.

“Aye,” she says. “I can sit and spin for hours.

“I’ve even been know to fall asleep, but my hands keep on spinning.” Miraculous.

Back at home I telephone Jackie to thank her for a lovely evening. No sooner have I put the phone down, but Jeanette rings.

“I felt a bit slow this morning,” she says. “I think we had a few glasses of wine. How did you feel?”

“I drank loads of water,” I reply, wisely.

“That’s a great idea, I should have done that.”

“You left your handbag behind.”

“Och aye, I did.”

“And you didn’t get up til eleven o’clock.”

“How do you know that?”

“Charlie told Jackie that you were still in bed when he dropped your bag round. Gordon came to the door in his dressing gown.”

And then I add, needlessly, “This is a village, you know.”

Neighbour seeks adoption

A dead bird has been deposited on my front doorstep. I have my suspicions I know who left it there.

I found it when Jeanette came running down the path and knocked on my door to ask if I could move my car to let the firewood delivery truck down the lane.

I stepped over the rather unappetising little grey mass of feathers and went to move my car. A charming, attractive young woman - hardly my idea of a traditional wood chopper - jumped out of the delivery truck to acknowledge her thanks before manoevering down the lane and restocking our woodpile.

Back to my doorstep and the mystery of the dead sparrow, and all the evidence points to the mangy cat that lives in the end cottage.

A couple of weeks ago, my mother and her friend Allan came to visit. I gave a small dinner party to introduce them to my friends, and invited Dawn and Jeanette. It is a bit of a squeeze to get five of us round my dining table designed for four, but we manage.

A jolly evening with lots of chatter ensues. I serve miniature haggis, beef casserole and poached pears with raspberries. All washed down with wine or whisky, as your taste prefers.

When it comes time for the guests to leave, I open the front door and let out a screech.

There is a large brown cat sitting on the doormat, staring fixedly into my cottage. She (or he) does not move or appear startled at my sudden appearance and the light that floods over her (or him).

Mum, Allan, Dawn and Jeanette all peer around the door at the cat, who remains motionless, despite she (or he) being the centre of attention. I don’t much like the look of him – he has a ferocious glint in his eye. If I open the door too wide, he might try to come in, or leap on one of my guests, clawing at them. His fur is all matted. He might even have fleas.

I shut the door while we consider what to do.

“I think it’s Elaine and Ronnie’s cat,” says Jeanette. “They inherited it from the previous owners. It refused to leave.”

“Well, what’s it doing here?” I ask. “I’ve never seen it before.”

I open the front door again, imagining he (or she) will have tootled off by now. Nope – still there: silent, stationary and staring at me rather fiercely - with mad intent, I fear.

Finally I take the bull by the horns – or rather, the moggy by the ears – clap my hands loudly, and ‘shoo’ him (or her) away.

It is then safe for my guests to leave with Jeanette and I leading the way by torchlight down the path, prepared to fight off the local domestic wildlife if necessary.

End of story? Perhaps not. Cats, like elephants, have long memories and a snubbed cat is not a cat that you would care to have as a neighbour. Which is why I think today’s little gift of a half-chewed bird is from the mangy moggy.

My theory is that she (or he) wants to be adopted by me, and this is just the second stage in her carefully thought out charm offensive, having discovered merely sitting it out on my doorstep was a miserable failure. She was obviously attracted to my cottage by the party, rightly concluding that food, a warm fire and a cosy bed would be on offer on the other side of the door.

I am not fooled. Not remotely. Today’s Scotsman has a cautionary tale for any person thinking of unlawful cat adoption.

When Smudge went missing, his owner Nickie was heartbroken. When Smudge rocked up home six months later, she was delighted. That is, until the Macdonalds who found Smudge and looked after him during his sojourn away, even re-christening him Oscar, tried to claim him back.

The Macdonalds are heartbroken, cannot sleep and have health problems associated with losing Oscar/Smudge. Their dog, Hamish, not previously a cat lover is also ‘inconsolable’. Meanwhile Nickie is making it plain she has no intention of relinquishing her pet kitty again.

Passions are running high, mediation has failed, the custody battle has escalated and is now being fought out in Stornoway Sheriff Court.

So right now I am going to give the moribund wee birdie a ceremonial burial in the garbage bin. I like Elaine and Ronnie too much to risk giving their cat any indication that his (or her) crush on me may be reciprocated.