Notes from the Isles

ABOVE:

Kate and Cronie, her faithful Border Terrier

RIGHT:

Words by KATE FRANCIS

This Christmas, most of my family were with their in-laws, so it was just Mary and me here. My notorious Scrooge-like frugality kicked in and I decided not to buy a Christmas tree, at vast expense, and then after its 12 nights of glory, consign it to the bon re. Instead, I pruned some branches from a r tree in the wood above the house, tied them together to form a somewhat eccentrically shaped tree on which I hung lights and baubles. Our 61-year-old angel, made by a babysitter from scraps of my wedding dress, with tinfoil wings, perched precariously on top. The effect was, for want of a better word, unusual!

We went to church with my lovely neighbours, John and Maggie, who then returned to their house while Mary and I opened our presents round the home-made ‘tree’ and ate smoked salmon and paté nibbles. Mary then spent the afternoon toiling in the kitchen while Cronie and I went for a walk and then John and Maggie joined us. We sat round a blazing re, swapping stories, jokes and Hebridean memories and then Mary served us a delicious leg of local lamb accompanied by several exotic side-dishes.

Maggie had made some scrumptious mince pies and I contributed a Tesco’s Finest Christmas Pudding, which was extremely tasty. Altogether, we had a very happy Christmas.

The farm track up to my house is quite steep, with a nal right-angle bend to get to the back door. This becomes a daunting skating rink when there has been a frost after rain or snow. Walking is hazardous and trying to get the car up can end in disaster. So far, this year, I’ve managed to avoid having to abandon the car on the frozen corner but there’s still plenty of winter to get through. The trick, I’ve discovered, is to keep my foot on the accelerator all the time, gently but rmly.

It was 64 years ago this April that my beloved Douglas and I returned from our honeymoon and moved into our married quarter in the grounds of Cameron Barracks in Inverness – the rst of the 21 houses we lived in during our army life. The day we moved in, Douglas gave me a slim, oval, gold bangle as a wedding present and it has been on my wrist ever since...until, a couple of weeks ago. I was having a shower and realised it had gone. Total panic. Because it was as much a part of me as my wedding ring, it could have been missing for several days before I noticed. I ransacked the house, the car, the garden.

Its circumference is too small for it to have slipped off, but I always wear thick gloves outside and Cronie and I go for two daily walks, each at least three miles long, along tracks paved with fallen leaves, mud, ice, and snow; sometimes we cross elds. Whenever I put Cronie on the lead or pull my handkerchief out of my pocket, I wrench my right-hand glove off with the glove-padded thumb of my left hand: my bangle is so slender that I could easily remove it without feeling it through the cuff. This means that I could have dropped it anywhere within about a six-mile radius of my house.

During the week before I noticed my loss, I’d been to shops and supermarkets stocking up for Christmas, taking my gloves on and off the whole time, as well as to the airport to meet a daughter, and to the station to meet another daughter. I’ve reported my disaster to the police and to any lost-property of ce related to anywhere I’ve been, and I’ve pinned up ‘Lost’ notices on every board I can nd. So far – zilch.

The only good thing that has come out of this is that I’m now on such good chatting terms with almost everybody who walks around the Black Isle. I get stopped by total strangers: “Have you found your bangle?” One man said he was going to hire a metal detector for me. the Window into Scotland | JOURNAL © IAIN LOWSON WILDLIFE/ALAMY

I’ve now made a pact with my guardian angel, St Francis: the moment I see my bangle I shall give up my vape for a month...I’m now worried that I may have to extend that to six months, or even a year.

One of the most memorable highlights of 2022 was an unexpected evening visitor at Halloween. I was sitting in my armchair, reading, with Cronie and her boyfriend Basil, who was staying with us, snug in their beds at my feet. Suddenly, I heard a sharp rapping on the window opposite me and the dogs started barking furiously. I had forgotten to pull down the blind and there, on the windowsill outside, was a barn owl. At rst, I thought it must be a Halloween trick-or-treat neighbour with a puppet, but I soon realised it was real. It pecked frantically at the glass with its beak, nudging it with its head and wings: it seemed to be asking to come inside, but the dogs made that impossible, so I just sat there watching it, almost in tears with delight.

After about ve minutes it gave up and ew away in a huff. I got out my bird book: barn owls are not social birds and avoid contact with people. The next morning, I discovered a dead mouse on the windowsill and decided that it was de nitely trick-or-treat!

I saw the new year in cosily tucked up in my bed with Cronie. No rst-footers as the bells rang out at midnight: no tall, darkhaired man bearing a coin, a bun, salt, coal, and whisky, to bring me prosperity, food, avour, warmth and good cheer, but I can remember the days when we used to gather our neighbours together and greet Hogmanay in proper Hebridean style, especially with the drams for good cheer.