A Private Education

We are terribly wicked parents. We send our poor wee boy away to school. 'How can you possibly do that?' people ask. It's difficult, probably more so for us that for him. I'm not saying that we didn't have a month of agony after he first went, just over a year ago. It was truly awful. That first sobbing phone call and I was in pieces. I had the car keys in my hand before the phone had fully disconnected. Luckily my wife is made of sterner stuff. She knew the drill, had strategies and plans - and they worked, for all of us.

Now we are three weeks into 'big school proper' (last year he came out of the Scottish primary system and into the last year of the new schools junior school) and is racing ahead. Why? people ask, why not just send him to the local comp? After all, it's a brand new school with all the IT and rescources you could possibly want. Well, no, it doesn't have all the resources. Yes, it has infrastructure but it doesn't have that almost indefinable extra something that is present in so many independent schools. I could witter on about class sizes (yes, important, 10 v 32), about committed, engaged and enthusiastic staff (truly in awe of these people), about the amazing curriculum (including seamanship and mountain rescue!) or about the incredible extra curricular actvities (jealous). But what I want to get at is more subtle. It's about confidence, courage, strength, versatility. Already we have seen our son blossom with a new found ability to carry an argument, to inform logically and deal with adults in a mature manner. It's wonderful to see. As are the friendships we see forming, strong, relaxed and confident.

I admit, he probably wouldn't be going there if he hadn't himself managed to get a scholarship due to his being a rather bright chap, but this school (you probably know the one, not many this far north) is worth every penny and I would fight lions to keep him there.

Just a little walk.

I knew what I’d find. When I opened the curtain and wiped a patch in the misted window with a squeaky finger. Frost. A good sharp one too. Pretty rare this side of Christmas in these parts. The sea winds off the Atlantic usually see to that. I feel a strange lift in my spirits and hurriedly pull on trousers and shirt. Downstairs and the dog seems to be sharing my enthusiasm for the frosty dawn. Boots and a puffy jacket on and out into the half light. Dog capers excitedly as we head off towards the bay.


We get to the little bridge and there it is. I was expecting it, even though I knew it was still weeks early. A stag, proclaiming his rights in the dawn. The sound of autumn in the Highlands. Awe inspiring, spine tingling. It carries though the still air with perfect clarity. I could go home happy now, but don’t. The dog and I carry on down the narrow tree shrouded lane and out into the meadows near the shore. A roe doe and her followers trip daintily away as we approach. A bunch of mallard are dabbling busily by the stepping stones, I feel the need not to disturb them. Every minute they feed is precious at this time of year.

We turn around and head back towards coffee. As we emerge from the yellowing trees Blabheinn and the Cuillin are laid out before us, gilded and glowing in the first rays of the day. It almost seems like a cliché but as we walk down the quiet road another sound reaches us, faint at first, carrying down from an enormous height. A skein of pinks, high, as high as the Cuillin, making landfall from the North West. Their ‘wink wink’ call unmistakable, evocative and beautiful.

Only a fifteen minute walk, back now in the warm, coffee on, toast in the toaster and all is well with the world.

Concentrate

I wonder if it is something to do with my 'involvement' with Lyme disease? It seems that I now have the attention span of an ADHD gnat. Whether it's trying to write, read my manuscript, read a book, watch a film or do my real work outdoors I just don't seem to be able to do it for very long. I think perhaps it might be time for a proper shot at meditation. I really do have to do something about this mind and also about the pain. My hands at rest now feel like I'm wearing big, rigid mittens which alternately chill and overheat, compress and impale. How long will I be able to use a chainsaw or pull a rifle trigger?

Down to England last weekend for the wedding of my wife's niece. A lovely weekend marred only by the amount of people inhabiting England. I forget and every time I head South it comes as a shock. The nose-to-tail traffic, the lack of decency, the dirt, the selfishness. Quite horrible. Is it any wonder I have to live on an island? I do worry about where it can all go, there are just too many people down there for people's mental welbeing - and it's not going to get any better.

Today we have a day of incredibly heavy showers and gusty winds, not a day to be in the woods but I must brace up and head out in a few minutes. I think perhaps I will head to Portree and fetch some chain oil and chainsaw files. Looking outside I can barely see the alders across the garden for the rain so maybe it's a good idea. That was interesting, wasn't it readers?

Winter Draws On

Well, looks like our long and unusually pleasant summer (here on Skye at least) is drawing to a close. I must admit, it is nice to seen the burns and the river charging along again. I was getting a little fed up of the sluggish trickle, I expect the fish were too. The wind has returned too - not so pleasant. Still, man up and face it. Just wish that someone made chainsaw trousers with a goretex layer. Why not, it seems so obvious to me and they are expensive anyway. Wearing a layer of flexothane over them is so constricting and sweaty. Very unpleasant.

I'm a little worried about my hands this year. The Lyme seems to have left a legacy in my fingers which causes them to be cold and painful, this could prove to be not only unpleasant for the winter but also dangerous. Maybe it's time for a saw with heated handles. Might have to give the new Husqvarna 550XP a try.

This year shows a profusion of rowan berries. The field fares will be here in a few short weeks to strip them away. Already the swallows are grouping and twittering, perhaps discussing the forthcoming journey south. It will not be long either before the grey skeins arrive. They come in high over the coast, battling with turbulent winds off the Cuillin to carry on towards the east and the productive arable fields of Easter Ross, Perthshire and beyond. They are a wonder and a joy to me, even though I no longer take a harvest from their numbers, to watch them is enough.

Twenty plus years ago we would lie in the ditch along side some frozen Pethshire potato field waiting for them to drop in. In the pre-dawn gloom each of us would lie imobile, teeth chattering as the express train roar of the skeins dropping and whiffling would swamp our senses. Don't look up, whatever you do, they'll see your face and put the air brakes on, back pedal on enormous wings and side slip into the dawn. No, wait, wait until you can't wait any more, until the tension is unbearable, until you are shaking with anticipation. Then George says quietly, 'now' and we each stand and shoot. Bump, bump, bump, the shots barely noticable in the cacophany. The coldness is forgotten, hands and feet are instantly warm. If you are lucky there is a thump as one of the birds hits the ground. The labrador, for who the waiting has been even worse, rushes out and returns with a pink foot. A young one if the Diana has allowed it. It'll roast well and will taste better than all the farm yard geese ever bred. You must leave now, the geese need that field, you must do so with a minimum of disturbance, even while you are walking off, ones and twos are circling and calling, ready to drop in to feed. Sitting in the back of the Land Rover on the way home, the grey body is on your knee, you stroke the feathers and feel the sadness and give a quiet prayer of thanks to the old gods.

George has been gone these long 12 years now and we miss him every day. It wouldn't be right for somebody else to say 'now' so now, no one says it and the geese have that field at least. I like to think that that old gander at the front...well maybe.