Dodgy Biscuits and Music Festivals

September began with an opportunity to apply some Highland Hospitality. Spook answered my phone to a man who said they’d been locked out of their booked campsite due to arriving late and did we have a hook-up and showers. I heard him say that we didn’t but they could park in the yard and use the house facilities. I opened the yard gate when they arrived and shut it behind them. It’s good I don’t keep it padlocked or they might have felt a little anxious. Their holiday hadn’t got off to a great start as they’d flown from Luton to Glasgow but her baggage had flown somewhere else, and as they were picking up a hired camper and travelling around the NC500 with no fixed abode, there was nowhere to send her luggage so she was to pick it up on her way back to Luton. Then they’d grabbed dinner in town before going to the campsite where reception was closed and no contact or explanation of where they were to park. So in a panic they’d found the website for my 2 caravans and hoped we could help. Traditonal Highland Hospitality is that should someone come to your door for help or shelter, you are duty bound to assist. The most treacherous example of this being the MacDonalds of Glencoe sheltering Campbells and English soldiers in 1692. I learnt about Highland Hospitality from Joy and Billy Munro - my parents-in-law - who demonstrated this hospitality on a seemingly weekly basis - the best example being when an outdoor pursuits minibus broke down outside their house. Billy ran an eye over the engine to see if he could fix it, while Joy made them a cup of coffee and they enjoyed a slide show of the northern region of Xingua Provence as my friend had called round to entertain the Munros with her pics.

The couple from London were a little bemused by the open door policy and lack of any payment. I did explain that they needed to just take things as they found them as I’d done 7 loads of washing on a wet day and the hallway was strewn with hanging sheets in a web of clothy dampness like something out of Miss Haversham’s hoose and they had to weave their way through it to find the shower room. Also Aussie Cam had done his washing which was draped over a clothes horse in the same space. I’d forewarned Cam not to be dashing from room to room in his bright orange underpants as he has been known to do - it’s possibly an Aussie kinda thing. I felt the couple had enough to deal with. I’d told them just to come in and out of the house when they needed the loo or shower and not to knock. The next morning I went out to say goodbye. Sometimes my ADD, finds that the H kicks in, manifesting itself as a tendency to over friendliness. I get sort of excited and nervous and can be a tad over-whelming. A thought was running through my head that they might try to pay something and in a Rapunzal moment, I pondered insisting they call their first born child Morag as it’s a name that is dying out.. At the risk of scaring them into thinking they were in a Tartan Noir horror, I resisted and just wished them a good trip and the offer to keep the towels.

The Indian Summer took a wee while to kick in and didn’t quite pan out the way I’d hoped. It was the 6th before it began and possible the 8th when it ended, in terms of Indian heat. Ben Race day saw a temperature of 24 degrees at the summit and turned out to be one of the toughest race conditions for many years. It took it’s toll on many runners and the next day was much cooler, with snow on the summit by the 9th. Spook had turned his ankle 3 days before the race and so was spared this serious discomfort and he went off to the Kirriemuir music festival with his Dad and his sister - the folk one, not the AC/DC festival.

Not to imply that I’ve nothing better to do with my time, but with the benefit of a joint account, I could trace their movements and got the impression they were having a good time. There can’t be too many watering holes in Kirrie, but I’d say they were in all of them. Starting with the Tavern and finishing there, so I worked out that was near the campsite. I now know the names of the places to be - Kerymor Tavern, Thrums Hotel, Three Bellies Brae and the Airlie Arms Hotel. If you know Kirrie and you think they missed a goodie, then do let me know so they can include it in next years repertoire.

The month at least stayed dry and pleasant for the most part. Weekday coffee and a walk around the croft at Inveroy can be partaken. Billy insists he’s allergic to dogs, which is handy for keeping them at arms length. Horses don’t seem to affect him….

There’s an old tradition that gets applied on these walks, which I never experienced myself, but I recognised it as soon as I saw it. The Walker and Cameron family of Upper Inveroy would know it too. Alistair Cameron - The Ploo (plough) would use the end of his stick to point out things of interest or bits you missed (like the best tattie at harvest time, just covered in soil and barely visible, but not to be left behind), and Billy has developed this approach. I expect Spook will continue the tradition when the time comes.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are cake delivery day in the Spean village shop. I’m often tempted by a cream donut when I’m picking up the paper, but I know that’s not Billys style. So I bought him a biscuit that I was sure he would like, but which has an off-putting name. I handed him the paper bag and said “I’ve bought you two bits of shortbread with jam in the middle, with icing sugar and a cherry on top.”

“very nice” he said and opened the bag

“That’s an Empire Biscuit!” he said. But I was ready for him and countered with the fact that it would be a shame to miss out on a biscuit he liked, and if they could re name Glasgow Streets that were called after slave traders, we could rename the biscuit. I did a bit of research and vaguely speaking, they were generally known as German biscuits, but in WW1, English soldiers decided to rename them Empire biscuits on account of the fact that they were busy fighting the nation that had created these tasty bites. One account said the Scottish soliders called them Belgian biscuits and I did find that Kiwi’s call them Belgian biscuits because they look a wee bit like Belgian buns - on the top, at least. So the next time I was in on a Thursday, I asked the shop assistance for a Belgian bisucit. She looked in the cabinet and looked at me….

“I’m Belgian,” she said in English with no hint of an accent. “And there’s nothing in here, we’d call a Belgian biscuit.“

Honest to goodness. What are the chances that the new member of staff is Belgian on the day I decide to try out the new name?

The Empire biscuit issue reminds me of someone who once told me he thought he may have encountered my mother in law at a local restaurant. By coincidence, it was the Jubilee weekend and a German friend was visiting and had taken them out to dinner. My informant told me that this woman had taken issue with the menu and was struggling to find something she liked.

“Coronation Chicken? Hmmm - no, I don’t think so.”

“Balmoral Chicken? Nope. Oh dear - I see there’s a Victorian Sponge for pudding!”

“I’ll just have to have the fish and chips followed by cheesecake.”

Which is exactly what she would have ordered anyway - she just appeared to need to hold a protest of some sort.

“Could that have been your mother in law?” he asked.

Aye.

On a dull-ish Monday, with the hope that many tourists had gone home, my sister and I took a trip out to Arisaig for a walk along Camusdarrach Beach. All was quiet, and we found Barbie doing what she does best - conquering the world in the scantiest of outfits.

She’s some dame!

Harvest Moon and some Northern Lights, all help to make September a favourite month, even if it wasn’t quite the wall to wall blue skies I was looking for.

And the return of Lochaber Live, brought a very special weekend to the town. Glorious weather and all the generations partying together. It felt good to have been at the last one 30 years ago, and to see people there that I knew had made it happen back then. I only partook in it lightly this year, whilst fondly remembering pulling work colleagues out of hedges and laughing loads as a 30 year old. Much to my father-in-laws disappointment, he only took in the Sunday afternoon family ceilidh with his 60 year old companion (me). But we both acknowledged that children getting their first taste of a ceilidh and music festival was brilliant. He did join us each morning for analysis of the previous evenings high jinks - one morning he’d already boiled his Inveroy egg, so he brought it with him…..

It came on it’s own plate - ready salt and peppered - and one could understand why he wasn’t down grading to a shop bought one.

Throughout the summer I’ve done some Talks in a local hotel, for mostly American tourists who travel here on the train. I’ve bent Billy’s ears for months over the matter of what I might talk about and it obviously needs to include a bit of history. The Clan Cameron museum at Achnacarry, as well as the West Highland Museum are treasure troves and I discovered Billy had never been to the one in Achnacarry nor St Ciaran’s church which sits on the estate, so the other day we took a trip down there. I’ve been plittering about with paints on paper to very little avail - just making patterns and trying to be mindful and relaxed with no other aim. But I did think they had a bit of a look of the church window. I come here quite often, for one who has no religious belief.

Meanwhile, my son, who was always known as Horizontal, is travelling around America, sending me pics of hot springs in the middle of nowhere, salt flats, and roaming Buffalo. And my daughter, who stole the H from my ADHD is none stop in Ireland, working out at Crossfit, running, working, cooking, socialising and has just brought Dougal, her sourdough starter back to life after 2 years at the back of her fridge. I might have to spend some time in Ireland. Dougal brings an extra level to life quality.

Bring on October.