Notes from the isles

This issue, our friend is reminded that by doing one’s duty, you reap the rewards

Words by KATE FRANCIS

ABOVE:

Kate and Cronie, her faithful Border Terrier

TOP RIGHT:

The Old High Church, Inverness

One of my somewhat hubristic assertions has always been that I prefer ‘proper’ weather: rain should drench; sun miserably in our mutual chair, and I wore socks and gloves in bed. Despite the winter weather, An t-Eilean Dubh (The Black should burn; the wind should be violent: there should be no boring dreich compromises. I am now regretting such idiocy. A series of bad storms hit us recently, serious enough to have names: Dudley, Corrie, Eunice... with Gladys approaching as I write. Dudley was my nemesis. The house shook, the tiles ew like falling leaves, a fence was attened; worst of all, the electricity was cut off for two days. I could cope with no lighting, heating, hot water, or telephone. I had a bag of half-used candles so I could read in the evening, but that was daunting because my chair is under a window and the curtains billowed out like All around us were those dear sails and the candle ames familiar faces who have been part uttered alarmingly. The disasters were that I of the 63 years of my married life was unable to re-charge my vape, and, having no internet, I couldn’t indulge my daily x of Wordle – a ridiculous game of chance to which I am addicted. The gale also put out my Esse stove, which not only cooks my food and heats the water but acts as a heater in my kitchen, and that’s the room I live in.

For ve days, Cronie and I sat, wrapped in rugs, shivering Isle), has recently quali ed as An t-Eilean Geal, (The White Isle): wild snowdrops carpet the woods and verges, greatly enhancing our daily walks. On one of these, we encountered someone who was considerably hardier than I. We were climbing a path in a freezing gale, and I was thankful to be wearing thermal leggings and vest, my thickest sweater and trousers and a well-padded coat. Then I noticed an old man approaching across the ice, aided by a cromag. He was dressed in anklelength socks and gym shoes, a light cardigan, and a kilt with a shiny leather sporran. His legs were very white and, as we exchanged greetings, I wondered if he kept the Highland tradition of what should be worn under the kilt. I hoped for his sake he was breaking the rules and wearing thermal boxers. The only disadvantage of having a base on an island is that ‘proper’ weather interrupts all ferries and planes. Many friends were cut off for days or had to cancel plans. I’m hoping that things will have quietened down by Easter when I’ve arranged to join the family over in our island retreat. Weather permitting, all my grandchildren are visiting me just before Easter, to partake in

an event that has been arranged by the eldest of them, Suzanna, who is 30, and her husband, Sam.

The event is called the Doug Run, in memory of their beloved Grandpa Douglas, and entails a six-mile circular run from our front gate. Suzanna has already had a trial attempt and did it in 42 minutes. By the time I write my next column, we shall know who won.

I was recently telephoned by an ex-Cameron Highlander, an old friend who grew up with Douglas. He asked me if I was going to attend the final service at the Old High Church in Inverness. The Old High, as it is called locally, used to be the garrison church of the Camerons because there was no chapel in the barracks, and it contains many of the Regimental Colours, memorials, and record books.

The ‘High’ refers to its position on St Michael’s Mount – a small hill overlooking the River Ness – not to highchurch Catholicism – it is staunchly Presbyterian. It could be described as the cradle of Christianity in the north because St Columbus preached here in AD565 and converted the Pictish King Brude to Christianity.

The present building dates from 1772, though bits of it go back at least four centuries and a book could be written about its history.

The Old High has suffered a severe drop in parishioners and has been sold, possibly to become a music venue. The final service would be attended by many Cameron Highlander veterans, all well into their eighties, nineties and even hundreds, because the Camerons ceased to be a separate regiment in 1960 when they amalgamated with the Seaforths, so there are no youngsters at all.

Without thinking, I said I hadn’t planned to go to the service and as I spoke, I received a sharp nudge from Douglas, who keeps a strict eye on my every decision, reminding me that supporting the Regimental Family is my duty. I did a quick U-turn and said of course I’d go, and that I’d drive us there.

It was a wonderful example of that Regimental Family, which outsiders mock, but which is as close-knit as any blood relationship.

We were greeted by one of the veterans in his Cameron trews with a Cameron face mask, and led to a section of the church reserved for the regiment.

All around us were those dear familiar faces who have been part of the 63 years of my married life: people we have toured the world with, and lived, played, mourned and rejoiced with.

The service was surprisingly short for a Kirk ceremony, accompanied by the ancient organ and a choir. The sermon, was dignified and moving. When it was over, the Camerons stayed behind for a group photograph, which took almost as long as the service by the time they’d rejected the first choice of lining them up in front of a wooden crucifix commemorating the Camerons who fell at the Somme in 1916.

There wasn’t enough room in front of the cross, so all the old boys then shuffled over to stand in front of the altar. Finally, the photographs were taken, but it was then a lengthy progress from the Kirk to our car because of all the family members who demanded a hug and exchange of news. I am so glad I went. S