Notes from the isles

Our friend on the Black Isle lls us in on her life in the Highlands and takes us down memory lane

Words by KATE FRANCIS

THIS PAGE:

Kate and Cronie, her faithful Border Terrier

OPPOSITE:

Kessock Bridge, Inverness Burns Night has come and gone, and Mary and I have happy memories of the evening we spent with John and Maggie next door, with whom we have shared a bubble since the rst lockdown.

We had delicious Cockburn’s haggis – the best – and all the traditional accompaniments; John recited the address to the ‘Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race’ as Maggie placed the ‘groaning trencher’ before us. “O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!”

As we ate, I recounted the story I’ve told in this column before, of when we had a visit from my Australian cousin Angela and her husband Johnny, who’d come to stay with us and explore Scotland. We’d never met them before because my father’s youngest brother had emigrated to Australia after the war, where he settled down and married an Aussie lass. Because Douglas was too frail for us to take them sightseeing, we hired them a car and they toured the Highlands enthusiastically. I discovered it would be Johnny’s birthday the day before their departure and, knowing their delight in all things Scottish, I hatched a secret plot: we’d have a family gathering for a Burns Night Supper. I collected and hid all the required ingredients and planned the surprise. Very fortunately, at supper the night before, I happened to ask Angela casually if she’d ever eaten haggis. “Haggis?” she said, “do you know what it’s made of? I wouldn’t touch haggis if I was starving, and it was the only food available.” Fortunately, there were plenty of partridges in the deep freeze and I had time to change the plan.

The Black Isle is not an island, so, until we’re allowed to go back to our family base in the Outer Hebrides, Notes from The Isles is a misnomer, but I hope it won’t be long before this is recti ed. Fingers are crossed for a gathering at Easter, in our genuine island home. Watch this space.

However, until the late Queen Mother opened the Kessock Bridge in 1982, it was easy to think The Black Isle was indeed an island, with three rths surrounding the peninsula and only a narrow strip of land linking it to the mainland.

To get to Inverness, it was far quicker to take the ferry across a few hundred yards of the Beauly Firth to South Kessock, than to drive for about an hour round the rth.

Despite the fact that the historic ferry pier of South Kessock is now part of Inverness’s least salubrious district, it will always have a very special place in my heart.

In the summer of 1958, when we were newly engaged, Douglas and I were queuing to take the ferry over to North Kessock to visit his parents so they could get to know me. It was a beautiful sunny day; we got out of the car and went to lean over the railings, gazing across the water towards the house in which I now live.

Looking uncharacteristically shy, Douglas pulled a little box out of his pocket, opened it and extracted – to my complete surprise – the engagement ring a local jeweller had created from an old ring his mother had given him. He took my left hand, slipped the ring onto my nger and kissed it. I nearly cried with happiness. In my innocence I had forgotten that being engaged involved a ring and I had no idea that

he’d been having one made for me. Whenever I wear it and look at its gleaming ruby between two diamonds, I remember that day with great joy.

During the recent spell of Arctic weather, I had a nasty fall on the ice, fortunately not breaking anything but shaking up my octogenarian bones and muscles. The Yaktrax I’d resurrected had already worn out, so I wasn’t wearing them and had not yet ordered another pair. Word travels like a pandemic in our community and a few days after my fall Postie Jane brought me a parcel containing a brand-new pair of Yaktrax. There was no note to say who’d sent them and my four children denied all knowledge, as did any of my neighbours I asked.

I wrote to the firm they’d come from to ask if they could tell me, but I haven’t had a reply. No doubt they are bound by a Protection of Privacy Act. It worries me dreadfully, not being able to thank my kind benefactor.

Cronie is in disgrace and has been issued with an ASBO (antisocial behaviour order) from the Council, plus a booklet about how to control your dog. She has an instinctive dislike of certain small dogs, Jack Russells in particular. Most unfortunately, there is a Jack Russell called Star who lives about a mile away and the farm track that runs past my house is a favourite dog-walking route.

Not long ago, Cronie and I went out of the front gate for our morning walk, and she spotted Star in the old steading. Being a Border Terrier, when her blood is up and she’s on the chase she ignores human authority.

Star was scooped off the ground by her owner, Cronie jumped up and, in her frenzy, missed Star and bit her owner in the arm, through the sleeve of his thick anorak.

Understandably, he was cross and rather rude, despite my abject grovelling. Later, hearing that he’d had to have an anti-tetanus jab, I delivered them a bag of appeasing goodies: chocolates, biscuits, dog treats, and a poem of apology that I’d carefully composed, but I didn’t manage to win them over and they ignore me whenever we meet.

From now on, Cronie must be on her lead whenever we are within range of other dogs, so we take to the hills, where no one else goes. Today, on one of these remote tracks, what should we see coming towards us but a girl with no less than four Jack Russells. Cronie rushed up, tail wagging and greeted each one with a sniff and a friendly lick. Thank you, St Francis – again. S

Until the late Queen Mother opened the Kessock Bridge in 1982, it was easy to think The Black Isle was indeed an island