A TALL STORY

I had a delivery of flowers last week which has become the talk of the village and beyond - even in Blairgowrie these flowers are now a point of conversation.

The story begins with a knock on my door one morning while I was enjoying my first cuppa of the day. A man sporting an Interflora logo on his chest said, "Ah! You're here! I just wanted to check before I brought the delivery." And he scuttled back to his van.

A few minutes later and he knocked again. I opened the door and could not believe my eyes. He was sheltering behind the most glamorous, exotic looking creation I had ever seen. As it was also well over five feet high, therein lay our first problem - getting it in the cottage. We overcame this hurdle by both the delivery man and me kneeling down and gently passing the flowers over the doorstep.

Fortunately they were already in a flower vase, so we cleared a low table and the flowers just fitted on top with a few inches clearance below the ceiling:



My dear husband had organised the flowers for our wedding anniversary. And aside from the fact that I had them in the window for passers-by to enjoy, I thought this tale would end here.

ADDENDUM 1: Jeanette dropped round whilst I was still in shock, and in hoots of giggles I showed her my flowers. She just stood with her hand over her mouth, "Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, I've never seen anything like it, I'm gobsmacked," and burst out laughing too.

ADDENDUM 2: I went into the flower shop in Blairgowrie to find out if they were (1) responsible and (2) how often to water the orchids. I met a young lass who shyly agreed she had made up the flowers and she told me to water them every two days. I congratulated her on her creativity.

ADDENDUM 3: I went to the craft fair and Jeanette introduced me to the Blairgowrie flower shop owner. She told me they rarely had the opportunity to have (a) a free hand (b) enough $$$ to make up such bouquets. They were so pleased with it they took lots of photographs. She then introduced me to her husband who I recognised as the Interflora man. He admitted he had trouble getting the flowers in his van and had to bend the branches at the top.

ADDENDUM 4: At the Primary School Ceilidh I was introduced to one of my other neighbours. "Are you the lady who had the flowers?" she immediately asked me, and regaled me with her 'I saw them first' tale of seeing the flowers being marched past her window and helping the Interflora man to find my cottage.

ADDENDUM 5: Jeanette says she told 86-year old Janet about my flowers because she loves orchids, so I had better invite her round to see them. In fact, the more I think of it, I think I may need to have an official flower viewing.

ADDENDUM 6: I am in the village shop and the lady behind the counter says, "I heard all about your flowers ........"

I think this was my first live example of how the village grapevine works. Well, maybe my second example - I keep forgetting everyone knew all about me long before I arrived here.

MY FIRST CEILIDH

Gordon was playing his mandolin at the Primary School Ceilidh and Jeanette suggested we went along to the village hall to give support and have a dance. Yikes! At last those Scottish dancing lessons I took before leaving Sydney were going to be put to the test. Recalling that the steps were rather complicated and a clear head would be needed to remember the routines, I forsook all alcohol beforehand.

Frantic to know what to wear, Jeanette assured me it would be casual, so I took her at her word - and still managed to be over-dressed. Aside from two eight year olds who were wearing matching blue sequined dresses, everyone else was in jeans and wearing boots. Not a dance pump to be seen!

Gordon was wearing full traditional dress which surprised Jeanette as he had left home in jeans and she had to keep signalling him to pull his kilt down as he sat legs spread-eagled, playing his mandolin. I tried to stop her because I thought at least the mystery might be solved of what is worn beneath the sporran:



The dance was for five to 12 year olds who were mostly dancing with their parents. Safely nursing a very small glass of wine at the back of the village hall, I sat back to watch them perform the Virginia Reel - not one we had learned at Scots on the Rocks. Alas, not for long - Gordon needed another eight set and insisted Jeanette and I join in.

The caller went once through the dance and the the band started up. I was feeling extremely glad I had taken those lessons and was very proud of myself that I didn't take one wrong step or go in the opposite direction to everyone else. In fact, a lot of what we had been taught seemed to be a load of tosh once I was in the midst of real Scottish dancers. Not one 'hop skip' to be seen; and every time I raised my hand to shoulder height Jeanette snatched it and pulled it down. I was beginning to worry that I was looking rather overly professional in a Strictly Come Dancing sort of way. Not a good look to outperform the locals at one's first ceilidh, especially when they are mostly under-12s.

After two sets of the Virginia Reel we were hot and exhausted and staggered back to our table. The children from the school then performed three Scottish songs for the St Andrew's celebrations, including the Skye Boat Song which had a slightly false start until Gordon helped them find the right key, with the aid of his mandolin. The school has about 30 pupils, split into three classes, but the choir comprised only Years 4-7:



Food was then served with, of course, a cup of tea. Oatcakes, cheese and shortbread.

As we were leaving, Gordon was calling for the Gay Gordons at the request of one of the dads, and it seemed to be a favourite. I watched closely as I imagine this is a dance that is regularly performed and it was another one we had not learned at our classes. Jeanette says it is easy, but tonight it was a bit of a schmozzle and looked more like the Ham Hamishes, so I am none the wiser.

ST ANDREW'S DAY CELEBRATIONS

Great excitement as this weekend the St Andrew's Day celebrations take place in Blairgowrie, and one of the key events was today's Craft Market. A few of the local ladies had stalls which meant I would see the results of the shopping expedition to the craft shop in Letham earlier this week.

But first, I went and watched the Massed Pipe Bands playing to a large audience at the town centre, a small park called Wellmeadow. Seeing all those handsome virile men, women and youngsters in kilts, impeccably turned out, marching, playing their bagpipes and banging their drums at the Sergeant-Major's behest brought tears to my eyes:





But time, as well as the pipers, was marching on so I hurried across town - which took approximately three and a half minutes - to the hotel where the craft market was taking place. A slightly strange room, as the hotel has tried to make it seem like the interior of a marquee - presumably so that wedding parties could imagine that they were holding their reception outdoors- with the result that all the white swathing around the walls and ceiling made it feel more like an Arabian souk. The room was also very dimly lit so seeing the detail of the products on sale was rather tricky, but perhaps this was deliberate.

Jean, Jill and Karen were selling handmade Christmas, birthday, wedding, good luck and sympathy cards. They had made hundreds it seemed, including several tractor cards for Ronnie's friends to buy for his birthday. The sheets of card, ribbon, glitter and glue that had been amassed earlier in the week had now been turned into a going commercial concern. Or would have been, except these three ladies only made a grand profit of seven pounds ($14) because they spent all the remaining proceeds buying Christmas gifts from the other stall holders. I asked Karen what they would do with the seven pounds. You guessed it, back to the craft shop at Letham to buy more card supplies. She admitted it wasn't really a very profitable business.

Petrina who runs all the village activities had a table piled high with willow branches, glue and glitter and the young ones were making very eco-friendly stars which were not only a triumph of design but being made of natural product were aesthically pleasing too - even if some of the stars were a bit wonky.

Elaine, my neighbour and poet, was going gangbusters with sales of her books and framed poems. She has recently published a very wee collection of poems written in local Scottish vernacular (as opposed to Gaelic) - they just need to be read phonetically to get the full guttural Scots effect. I think she may have invented a whole new artform.

At four o'clock the craft fair ended but the stall holders weren't too dismayed to have unsold goods. Next weekend our village has its local fair and they will be back again, having spent all week busily making up more stock of the most popular items.

BOARS & BEAVERS

On Fridays, volunteers are invited to spend the morning helping out at the village shop with stocktaking, tidying the shelves and any odd jobs that need doing, so the store was abuzz with activity when we went in for brown wrapping paper and a cup of tea.

Most of the ladies were sorting through Christmas decorations. Tonight, after closing time, the shop window is being dressed in time for the first yuletide event - a wine and cheese tasting next Friday evening. Flyers and emails have already gone out regarding ordering Christmas trees, pheasant, turkey, fresh vegetables and bakery items. Christmas cards designed, photographed or painted by local artists are piled on the front counter. A festive air is starting to permeate and talk now frequently revolves around planning for Christmas.

After Jan cleared herself and the stuffed Christmas bears from our table - which she was re-pricing as they hadn't sold in previous years - Marie sidled over and leaned across in a conspiratorial manner.

"I've got a secret place for you to go to, if you're interested," she hissed.

Our ears pricked up.

"There are boars and beavers there, but no one knows about it. I can give you directions."

We gulped down our tea, jumped into the car, and headed for Tullymurdoch. We listened closely to instructions to head towards the Glenshee road, over the windy back road past the windmill farm, a left turn - or was it right? - to a narrow walking trail, beyond the derelict farm, follow the red heart, oops! Sorry, I can't give you any more clues than that because the location, as Marie emphasised to us, must remain top secret.
 

 
Because of the torrential rain of recent weeks, the tracks we drove down were mostly potholed or virtually washed away. We suffered a few false starts, had difficulty remembering the directions and nearly got bogged in a field, before rounding a bend to be confronted by the discombobulating sight of an Asda supermarket home delivery truck blocking the lane. But even in this remote rural location people have to eat, and as the cottage owner was sorting her shopping, we quickly hijacked her for help to find the boars and beavers.
 
She was highly amused that we had not recognised the obvious beaver activity or the boar pens which apparently are easily recognised - but not to us townies! Standing barefoot at her front door, she explained where to go but warned us that the boars were dangerous, would probably think we were there to feed them and no account to go into their pen, not least because we would find ourselves thigh-high in mud.

With trepidation we squelched through puddles and mud and peered over the boar pens into the murky, muddy, spooky wood that is their habitat:



Not a boar to be seen, which I for one was quite grateful about. Beaver-stalking seemed a far more benign activity.

Beavers, as it turns out, are very noisy. This is because their work involves chewing into tree trunks and spitting the wood chips out. When we arrived at the beaver dam it was ominously quiet. We crept along the walking trail, but not a beaver to be seen. However, there was plenty of evidence of their presence:



I think I MAY have seen the back end of a beaver dart into its burrow but the air remained still, not even a bird call. We decided they must be on lunch break - all that gnawing having exhausted their jaws and also left them hungry for something more edifying to eat. Or perhaps they were beavering away underwater trying to get their homes built or renovated before Christmas. Whatever the reason, finally, we gave up our vigil.

When I got back to the cottage, after googling 'beaver habits', the reason for their mystifying absence became clear as apparently in winter beavers generally only leave their lodges to feed from stored food supplies. During this time, they live in constant darkness and lose track of time. Which sounds remarkedly like my GenY son, Will, who also lives a nocturnal lifestyle, much of it asleep, and often forgets to turn up at the appointed hour.

BEWARE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE

In the pub last night Henry was gravely heard to pronounce that snow was on the way. A drive to the Cairngorms proved him correct, although it was only light flurries. However, it seemed one couple had frozen in memoriam on the roadside - after a bit of a tiff, judging by their attitudes:



To avoid a similar fate, we stopped at the Spittal of Glenshee for a bite of lunch. A dire warning in the entryway alerted us that in its 1000 year history the Spittal of Glenshee had burned down 15 times. As the insurers estimate that it will not burn down again until 2029AD, we decided it was safe to venture inside. Which might have been a slightly cavalier attitude in retrospect.

There was a young Indian chap serving behind the bar, evidently part of a larger family lately from Bangladesh who have taken on the hotel's management. It was good to note he wanted to be part of the local 'scene' but the full national dress, especially as his kilt was several sizes too large, might have been overdoing it. A conversation with a local tradesman sporting an extremely broad Scottish brogue might have fared better with a translator as they were both equally confused by the other's accent, but some universal hand signals appeared to sort matters between them.

Tartan wallpaper, jolly snowmen in jerkins and piped bagpipe music completed this Scottish pub experience.



Alarmingly, our Indian friend decided the log fire wasn't blazing enough, so he picked up a can of paraffin and poured it over the logs. The leaping flames attested that this worked a treat, but we are pretty sure his sporran got mighty singed. And it certainly explains why the Spittal of Glenshee has a history of going up in smoke, if this particular ancient art of fire-making is the one that has been passed down through generations of its hoteliers.

DAY TRIP TO THE CRAFT SHOP

In the bid to track down red wool to knit Tessa's beanie, Jeanette offered to take myself and my friend Diane to the craft shop at Letham. But first, we needed to meet at the village shop for the fortnightly coffee and cake morning which inadvertently became weekly due to an advertising error.

Jean had heard we were going to Letham and decided she would like to come too. She telephoned her friend Jill who also wanted to come along. It was agreed we would take two cars. By the time we had finished our cups of tea, Mahri and Jan, who were both working in the shop had taken off their aprons and decided to come along as well. I'm not sure how short-staffed that left the shop but no one seemed particularly concerned. Just as Jean was loading her passengers into her car, she spotted 86-year old Janet and invited her along too. Janet ducked inside her cottage to collect her cardie - and we were off! All eight of us!

Letham turned out to be an hour's drive away and by the time we arrived at the craft shop, it was time for eight bowls of soup and oakcakes at the cafe before the strenuous work of buying craft supplies could begin.

The shop was an extraordinary warren of small display areas where everything was set out in a shambolic way but packed on the shelves, walls and ceiling was everything you could ever possibly need to create any craft idea - jigsaw puzzles, embroidery, school projects, homemade Christmas and birthday cards, beads, wool, ribbons, card, paints, lace, patterns. It was a visual assault and a miracle if you could find what you sought. Fortunately the assistants knew where to find the most obscure requests. "Glass eyes? Certainly ma'am!"

1. Jeanette was seeking materials for the rag doll she is entering into the rag doll competition. I came across a birthday card illustrated with fly fishing baits - I thought she might like it for Gordon. She did.
2. Diane found black beads to decorate her shoes.
3. Jean tracked down a tractor design to make a birthday card for Janet's son, who one assumes is either a tractor driver or has some affinity with tractors.
4. Janet was after cards and ribbons.
5. Jan and Mahri bought provisions for the village shop - thus making this an official 'buying trip' I suppose, and excusing them for playing hooky.
6. Jill filled her basket with an odd collection of card, beads and cottons which would somehow miraculously become crafty gifts.
7. I found fair isle wool to make leg warmers but no red wool. I also found a egg made of bone to add to my egg collection.

This is part of the thread section:



Due to the chaotic nature of the shop it took some while to round up the eight ladies at the end of the expedition but finally we were on the road again having decided to make a detour via Peel's Farm for afternoon tea. Jan was prescient enough to telephone ahead to check if the cafe would still be open when we arrived at 3.45pm. She pointed out that there were eight of us, so we were assured by the owner that we would be accommodated.

We settled at a large table in front of a roaring log fire. The tray bake was malteser cake. We each ordered a slice. Whoever cut the portions obviously learned their trade in America - the pieces were enormous slabs of inch thick milk chocolate, jam-packed with maltesers. Hyped with sugar we bounced out of the cafe in time to investigate the Peel Farm shop where we found - hooray! - Italian red wool.

Tired, emotional, and weighed down with packages we got back to the village long after dark and waddled our way home to get out our knitting needles, glue and sewing patterns so that in a few weeks' time, another day trip to Letham can be justified.

MOVE OVER, BOB DYLAN

I don't think too many people leave their home with the express intention of sitting around a large table to knit a baby hat - but then return home with a guitar, but that is what happened to me.

Yesterday when I came home from Clicking Needles, Gordon was in the garden and he took me to the summerhouse to show me the cupboard he and Jeanette had bought to put in the dining room to house my printer. He had spent all afternoon sanding and painting it a very pleasant distressed eggshell colour.  Jeanette is going to line the glass door with gingham material tonight and I should take possession tomorrow - it will be lovely to get my printer and papers off the floor.

Once we had all viewed the cupboard and admired its proportions and suitability, I then had the tricky task of deflecting Gordon from making plans for our fly fishing lesson (which he always mentions whenever I see him), so I asked him when I could have my mandolin lesson. Gordon says the mandolin is vairy tricky and that he thinks it would be better for me to learn guitar. Before I could change my mind, he whisked me into his house, appeared with two guitars (one for him, one for me), and proceeded to persuade me that learning the guitar is the most simple skill ever invented by mankind. 

In preparation for my first lesson, he wrote out some basic instructions complete with diagrams and spent twenty minutes showing me chords C, D and G. He gave me Blowin in the Wind to practice on the guitar he has lent me. I had difficulty stretching my fingers to reach the strings. He told me to cut the fingernails on my left hand. I think I might cut the ones on my right hand too, to make a matching pair. He is also giving Mahri, from the village shop, lessons. She has smaller hands than me - so they must be tiny - and she can apparently reach all the frets and strings. It was decided we might have joint lessons as he thinks we will spur each other on.

Gordon plays the fiddle and he recently decided to start up his own band, as gigs apparently pay really well. He made up flyers and sent them out to various pubs and hotels offering his band for performances at ceilaghs. The day after he dropped off the flyers he was telephoned and offered a gig. The only difficulty is that at the moment he hasn't actually recruited any other members for his band. He has agreed to perform at the ceilagh though. I just hope he isn't expecting Mahri and I to provide guitar backing.

At the coffee morning in the village shop today, Jeanette said people are needed to accompany the carol singers at the concert on December 20th and volunteered the guitar-playing services of Mahri and I.  We are now seeking out a carol which only requires two or three basic chords to be played and which we might be able to master in time. The ladies around the table sang Away in a Manger very slowly, dirge-like, to illustrate the funereal speed at which the the congregation will have to sing to keep up with us. I think they thought they were very funny.

My first proper lesson will probably be at the weekend so I have to get in some practice before then - I have the feeling Gordon will be expecting no less than 100% commitment:

HATS & GOSSIP

I am very proud of myself. I have knitted ten premature baby hats. Today I took them to Clicking Needles. There was only one teensy weensy itsy-bitsy hiccough which I had to explain to the ladies. Initially I had a bit of a problem working out the pattern and my first two efforts are, I think, perhaps more suited to a set of pixie twins:



When I showed Jeanette, in her usual kindly fashion, she said she thought the hats were better made this way because it made them easier to take off baby's head. She even managed to make it sound as if I had in some way improved on the original design by adding this innovation.

But the next eight hats, whilst not exactly of a uniform size, do show promise I think?:



When we arrived, the other ladies proudly displayed their efforts and the table was covered in baby jackets, hats, shawls and booties delicately and perfectly presented, a showcase of complex stitches and patterns. Everyone 'ooh-ed' and 'aah-ed' and marvelled at the work, asking technical questions about casting on, tensions and wool characteristics. Eventually I decided to make a brave face of it, and to hoots of laughter, I presented my pixie hats. Because I am Australian I think I got away with it. However, I was pleased to note that the lady who joined Clicking Needles at the same time as me is STILL knitting squares!

Current gossip:

1. Last night the nearby crofters lodge burned down. Janet heard the fire engine at 1.00am. Arson is not suspected.
2. The white van believed to harbour the burglars who stole the duvets and fireside set from Jean's shed two weeks ago was spotted at 2.30am at the end of our lane! Elaine's husband heard the engine running and went to investigate as this was a highly suspicious occurrence. The fellow was scared off and has not been seen since. I have been locking my door at night ever since I heard about the buglary because my bedding and my fire implements are the most critical items I will need this winter.
3. A knitting lady with a loud cackle went to Perth yesterday to see the Christmas decorations being lit up. There were four reindeers there - real ones apparently - and a mangy dog that followed her around. Her husband wasn't amused. She commented that he was showing his age (she must be well into her seventies). Cackle, cackle.

I started to knit one of those long stringy scarves for my son, Will, but I unravelled it when I discovered I was making it in Faggot Stitch. I thought it might offend him. It will look just as nice in knit two, purl two.

ROAMING IN THE GLOAMING

On Sundays, as the postman has the day off, I collect The Observer from the village shop. This morning I decided to I would sit and read my newspaper over a cup of tea. I should have known this would not be possible with the constant flow of people coming in and out of the shop, stopping to say hello.

Paul came in to buy low fat ingredients for the low fat Christmas pudding which he is going to make today. He was a bit despondent to discover the shop didn't stock crushed cloves, so I invited him to join me for a cup of tea. His diet means he is allowed to eat 28 points a day and his wife is allowed 18 points - they have both lost three stone. His rapid weight loss may have been affected by the fact that until last week he thought a pint of beer represented 4 points but then he was cheered to discover that two cans of Guinness, which are about a pint each, are only 4.5 points.

We talked for quite a bit about fat people which you can do without embarrassment when the person you are talking to has just lost three stone. Paul also does a lot of walking and when I mentioned that my friend Diane is coming to stay tomorrow and would like to go on lots of walks whilst here, he rattled off a number of suggestions. The problem was I didn't quite understand the directions as they all referred to local landmarks.

"Over the bridge, past the old church, turn left at Jan's house, that takes you past my house, then keep going til you reach Maureen's place ......"

In the end I was rescued by Mahri, the cake baker, who was minding the shop. She is also an avid walker and, even better, was able to locate several  maps of local walks. The three of us opened out the maps and once I'd orientated myself by turning the one of the Cateran Trail round the right way so it was facing towards the village school, my guides proceeded to tell me all about the best walks in the area. Paul's first recommendation was to walk to the Bridge of Cally, "only takes about 3.5 hours, stop for lunch at the pub, and then walk back". I don't actually think there are enough daylight hours for this. Besides which, in this climate, I have no intention of walking for seven hours.

Mahri offered a couple of other walks: (1) "Drive to Pitclochry, turn left at the Green Park Hotel, head for Lake Faskally, park at the duck pond, but then it's a bit tricky because the walk isn't sign-posted and you might get lost not being a local." No thankyou. (2) "A four mile walk over the bridge, turn right by the stone cottages but don't take the track by the river and walk back along the main road, you should be fine if there aren't too many large lorries thundering through." Hmmmmm.

Or we could go to Glen Clover: take the Alyth road, head for Kirremuir, follow signs for Glen Doll. Stunning walk, but as it was another of Paul's suggestions - and even though we would be rewarded with a pub at the end - it sounded like we might never make it in daylight hours. I don't fancy pitching a tent and camping out in below zero temperatures.

I asked about the beautiful waterfalls near Blair Athol which Marie, who has three dogs and a recalitrant teenage son, had told me to visit. Apparently this is only about a one mile hike, or perhaps it was a one hour hike? (regardless, this was sounding more like my type of walk). Park at House of Bruar, head up the hill behind the store, take photos, return for some shopping and a snack at the cafe . Better and better! The idea of a bit of retail therapy as a reward for all this exercise was sounding quite appealing. I think we will go on Wednesday.

Later, driving through another downpour, as I passed a couple out for a walk with their labrador it struck me that only Mad Dogs and Scottishmen go out in the Midday Rain. So we will go on Wednesday ONLY if it is NOT raining.

PS - check out Sir Harry Lauder: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7N4mxz02y-k

A WET SATURDAY

Foul weather has hit the mainland (England) and gradually made its way up to Scotland. 'Once in a thousand year floods' have swept away bridges, flooded homes and taken the life of a policeman.

The river at the bottom of the garden is swollen and the waters are rushing by in cascading white waves. It has not flooded the lawn yet, but we are keeping a watching brief. This morning it was dry but misty all through the glen. As there is more rain forecast tomorrow, I decided to take advantage of the break in the weather and headed out into the fog to play nine holes of golf.

The main course was closed due to floods, which meant that the wee course was very busy, and so a chat with one's fellow golfers to pass the time of day was a natural by-product whilst waiting to tee off. As weather is always the primary topic of conversation here, on a day when it is headline news across the country there was noticeable additional relish and dour enthusiasm. I became quite practised at the following Groundhog Day exchange at the pro shop, with each group of golfers on the course, and in the carpark whilst cleaning my shoes:

"Terrible day."

"Yes, the course is quite muddy."

"Aye, very wet and muddy. Ye'd expect that after all the rain. The main course is closed."

"Oh really? More rain tomorrow, I hear."

"Aye."

Later, because us Aussie girls must stick together, I ventured out into the sheeting rain and up the hill to the lodge which Jenny, the only other Australian in the village, has recently taken on managing with her beekeeper husband. I have offered to help her write her marketing materials.

Perched on a hillside overlooking the glen, the lodge has cabin accommodation, roaring log fires and large bar and lounge areas - perfect for hill walkers, skiers or just a romantic weekend. Jenny gave me the full guided tour which included what would be spectacular views, although these required a little imagination peering through rainy windows at the misty landscape, and an unscheduled wet corridor where a leak in the roof had caused major flooding. Eric, the local handyman, had spent the day making repairs.

After a couple of hours spent brainstorming ideas for Jenny's website over the ubiquitous cup of tea, I went back down the hill and it was time to clean the fireplace out and lug buckets of damp wood from the wood stack and put them into the wall oven to dry. Actually I gave up after one bucket because I was soaked.

Before it got dark, I trudged to the village shop to send a fax. Sally didn't know how to work the fax machine so I went into the Post Office to help her work out the technology. Whilst I say Post Office, it is just a cubby hole really. On the third attempt, we got the fax to go through. There was no cost sheet for sending a fax, and Sally wanted to charge me 10p (20c). I was horrified and insisted it must be more - after all, it was going all the way to Australia. We finally negotiated 20p. Then there was just time for a quick chat:

"Terrible day."

"Yes, it's quite muddy, too."

"Aye, very wet and muddy. Ye'd expect that after all the rain."

"Oh really? More rain tomorrow, I hear."

"Aye."

A RIBBING IN BLAIRGOWRIE

My darling daughter was so amazed at my burgeoning knitting prowess that she asked me to knit her a scarf (beige) and a beanie (red) for her Christmas presents, to keep her warm whilst back-packing through Europe during the northern hemisphere winter.

I decided to start with the scarf, which really must be just like making one elongated square so I thought it couldn't be too hard. A special expedition to the wool shop in Blairgowrie was called for!

The wool shop was very daunting. Behind the counter were two elderly ladies who looked as if they had been knitting from the cradle; in the store were several ladies of all ages, knowledgeably discussing garter stitch, four needle patterns and fingering-weight mohair. Embarrassed at my complete lack of knitting jargon, I decided to wait until the shop emptied before approaching the counter. In the meantime, I explored the vast range of wools on offer until I was completely bamboozled - and couldn't put off the evil moment any longer.

Taking courage in both hands, I explained to the dumpier, fluffier elderly lady that I wished to make a beige scarf from really thick wool. "Oh, you need chunky," she said and she showed me her thickest wool that was on display, made into a complicated sweater. It was far too thick and the wool had tweedy flecks in it which I didn't think would pass muster. She then went behind the counter where there were more shelves of wool, located where customers couldn't go, so safe presumably from beginners like myself who might mess up the order of things. After looking at a myriad of cream and beige options, I settled on a lightweight chunky wool in creamy-beige called Hug.

I now raised the tricky subject of how many balls of wool and what sized needles I would need. As I knew how wide and long I wanted my scarf to be we were quickly able to decide on five balls and 8mm needles.

Emboldened, I needed to settle the final and most crucial issue: what stitch to use. As I only know one knitting stitch, I said, "So, er, would stocking stitch be the best way to go?"

A sort of stunned silence came over the store. I heard the woman next to me snigger. The elderly lady serving me took in a sharp intake of breath.

"Oh no! That will make it curl at the edges!"

"Ah, yes, of course," I said, shamefaced. "So what would you advise?"

Wrong question. I was then bombarded with several suggestions, none of which made the slightest sense to me. By this time, the queue of ladies waiting to make their purchases was quite lengthy, although no one seemed in too much of a hurry, I think they were bemused and amused by the floorshow and the fact that someone of my age could be quite so knitting-ignorant.

As it turned out, I didn't need to get involved in this part of the conversation. The ladies in the shop all started to debate the best stitch to knit a scarf and eventually the collective decided on two-rib.

"And, er, how do I do that?" I asked, risking the withering looks.

"Knit two, purl two," they crooned in unison.

"Or knit three, purl two. Or knit three, purl three," piped up the lady serving me, keen to maintain her position of superiority, or perhaps just to further confuse me.

There's evidently a lot to this knitting lark - and to think that next week I will have to return to the shop to broach the requirements for the red beanie ......

ENTERTAINING AT HOME

In the past 24 hours I have been doing some home entertainment, which is a minefield of local social conventions, the most potentially explosive one being: "What time?".

Yesterday afternoon, knowing she doesn't much like to cook, I invited Jeanette for dinner. "What time?" she asked. An innocuous question perhaps, but I didn't want to cause an upset to her usual routine or elect an unacceptable time. Did she normally eat early at 6.00pm, or perhaps later at 8.00pm? I quickly plumped for 7.00pm. "Oh, 7.00pm?" she said in a questioning tone which made me immediately think I'd opted for an unusual or inconvenient dinner time.

She arrived on the dot of 7.00pm. I have noticed that people are very punctual here, almost to the minute. She kindly came with a bottle of Australian wine and we settled in front of my - well actually, her - blazing log fire and quickly the discussion turned to Christmas decorations. At her request I had bought her a couple of Christmas tree decorations from Copenhagen, in exchange for the knitting bag she had bought me in Edinburgh last week. She seemed pleased with them - a large white wooden key and two silver doves that clip onto the branches. Jeanette is also planning to rifle through her attic and let me have masses of decorations so that I can be suitably festive, and we will go on an outing next week to a neighbouring village to buy Christmas trees for both cottages.

Having exhausted talk on fairy lights, advent calendars, mantlepiece hangings and door wreaths (I reminded her I wouldn't need one unless I had a disaster at the next Women's Institute wreath workshop; she in turn reminded me that I had to buy a gift for the Best Wrapped Santa Gift) the conversation moved, naturally enough to knitting. I am beating her in the premature baby hat count - I have knitted seven to her five. She has entered a rag doll making competition so she will have even less time for knitting hats over the next week or so. I don't want to look like a show-off so maybe I will slow down my output.

The evening sped by as I picked up lots of hints on how to be a domestic goddess, country-style; memorised yet more dates of forthcoming village events; added to my repertoire of Scottish words (bothy - a sort of shed for work tools); and checked on the protocol for social visits (is a gift mandatory?). In return I promised to write out the recipe for the chicken pie I cooked - phew, it was a relief to be able to reciprocate in some way.

Today I invited Elaine - my other neighbour, school cleaner and local poet - for afternoon tea. "What time?" she asked. I was about to say "4.00 o'clock" as I thought this was a pretty obvious time for afternoon tea when Elaine jumped in and said "2.00 o'clock?". And, bang on the dot of 2.00pm she knocked on my door, and gave me a box of chocolates.

I had set a tray with the best china, sugar bowl, milk jug and biscuits, and made proper teapot tea because I'm pretty sure I would lose any brownie points I may have accrued with the locals were I to dangle a teabag in a mug.



Elaine moved to the village from Fife about three years ago and admitted she was a bit lonely to begin with which was why she started writing poetry, but she said that there wasn't much money in poetry although she has been published in local papers and even been featured on the radio. Elaine loves to chatter so over  several cups of tea, I sat back and I heard all about her family, her family's family, and why she left Fife (too noisy, too much traffic).

After she left, I worried that Dawn would have thought me rude arriving for morning coffee last week without an appropriate gift. But she did invite me to her Christmas party, so I expect this one social infraction was forgiven, but I shall take an especially nice present for her.

So I am no wiser about what time people around here eat dinner, but I think teatime can be any time. But then I knew that already.

WOMEN'S RURAL INSTITUTE

At the monthly meeting of the village WRI, 16 women turned out in the pouring rain and wind to listen to Elaine, from neighbouring Blairgowrie, come and talk about the art of bobbin lace-making. As I walked to the meeting hall trying to shelter beneath my golf umbrella, I thought I was going to be blown away, Mary Poppins style, over the tops of the cottages and the old church spire.

It was a jam-packed night with a hefty agenda of activities. When we arrived water was on the boil for tea (bring-your-own-mug), and everyone produced cakes, biscuits (Dawn brought gluten-free macaroons for Jeanette) and sandwiches from their baskets. Except me. I will be better prepared next month - I might even break ranks and take a bottle of Christmas cheer.

Elaine was a mine of information about the ancient art of bobbin lace-making, which nearly died out after WW1 as it was a craft practised only by very poor people who, after the war to end all wars, no longer wanted to broadcast their poverty. Fortunately for the western world, there are women like Elaine and her friend Shirley who have dedicated the past 40 years to reinvigorating the passion! They even attend the annual bobbin lace-making conference where each year they receive an engraved bobbin as a memento. Bobbin lace-making however is not for the faint-hearted - or those with bad eyesight. To produce a piece of lace about two inches square can take these experts up to 12 hours. So next time you blow your nose on that delicately lace-edged hankerchief, be respectful. In lieu of a photograph and for those who may not be up-to-date on this latest craze: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ursuline_lace_2.jpg

After a break for tea, the raffle was drawn (one pound for a strip of five tickets). There were about eight prizes so the odds of winning were high. My numbers didn't come up but I was given a bar of handmade rose soap because I was the new girl, or maybe it was a piece of bribery to ensure I return next month.

There were also three competitions to be judged which the attending WRI members anonymously enter each month. November's were: (1) favourite earrings (2) flower of the month and (3) knitted baby jacket. Votes are cast in the form of cash, which is donated to an African orphanage. We raised 22 pounds. As far as I could tell, there was no bitching about the winners, or their winning entries, which I think says a lot about how friendly the women are in our village!

The final part of the evening was devoted to the serious end of the business - the official meeting. Mostly this comprised reading out the minutes of last month's village meeting, last month's Blairgowrie meeting, last month's Perth meeting and the Treasurer's report. This took quite a while as each chapter does an enormous amount of fund-raising, outings and lectures, all of which required lengthy discussion or a call for volunteers and participants. When it got to Perth needing assistance with the Drama group all went quiet as no one in this village is interested in drama. Except me! A director is required for a radio play competition taking place next May - if I take on this role I am assured I will have no difficulty finding enthusiastic volunteers to form the cast, but it will of course require me to return in order to rehearse my actors. It is tempting as I hate to think that the village might be under-represented in this important competition.

Next month's meeting will have a workshop on wreath making - for Christmas, not funerals.  The competitions are for (1) best wrapped secret santa gift (2) flower of the month and (3) favourite hat. At least I have a whole month to work on it!

WALLY DUG, STAC POLLY & SPECALOOS

Edinburgh is a very special city. With the castle dominating the skyline, the imposing rows of stone terraces, cobbled-paved roads lined by gated parks and gardens, it is just a joy to spend a short time here and savour some of the delights.

With Karen and Lee, friends who had journeyed up from York, we headed off to my favourite Edinburgh pub - the Wally Dug. I have no idea why it is called the Wally Dug  - perhaps because it is located down stone steps in the basement of a corner terrace, a low-ceilinged 'dug-out', with kitsch Scottish themed sketches hung between the shelves of books, two small rooms and a nook. This is Karen and Lee in the nook under a typical winter scene:



The last time I was in the Wally Dug - about four years ago - I met a delightfully eccentric elderly gentleman, evidently from a very upper class background who had subsequently fallen on hard times, with whom I enjoyed a nonsensical conversation about stag hunting. I was hoping he still might be propping up the bar, but no such luck ...

At dinner at the Stac Polly restaurant, I fulfilled my mission to have haggis. It was a bit weird because it came served in wonton cases. Perhaps to satisfy the local Asian population. I must confess I was expecting the more traditional accompaniments of neeps, tatties and gravy. But it was delicious - I think I must cook haggis before I leave here - maybe serve it to my unsuspecting guests and pretend it's minced meat?

When I spotted a hair salon above Stac Polly one of my major dilemmas was solved - getting my hair done. Instinct, or perhaps visual evidence, told me the local village barber, should there be such a person, just might not have the touch I'm used to from my Sydney man, Tony.

I carried on my person the exact formula, courtesy of Tony, for mixing my hair colour (yes, sorry to dismay you, I am not a natural blondish brunette). On presenting this to Charles, who has owned the salon for 37 years, he seemed both impressed and taken aback - and it became clear that there is a certain amount of professional jealousy amongst the international hair community.

"Oh, I always give my customers their hair colour formula when they go away, too," he said, in a tone which implied that most hairdressers would not dream of such generosity, and that he wasn't going to be 'one-upped' by some upstart colourist in Sydney.

Despite the fact that I had instructed that 'just the roots' be tinted, there then followed a lengthy Q&A which went something like this, which is - apropos the Pocket Oxford Dictionary - the abbreviated version:

'Do you nay have the colour combed throo?"

'No, never."

"Ahh .... are ye sure? That's vairy strange."

'Um, quite sure."

"Are ye sure you dunna get some highlights done? Most of my ladies have theirs done every two or three visits." At this point I suspected that he suspected that I didn't actually know what my hairdresser did.

"No, no highlights, it just turns out this way."

"That's vairy strange."

"Maybe it looks tinted because I get more sun on it?"

"Och aye, that must be it!"

I could tell that he was not convinced about the ways of hairdressers in Sydney, and the tilt of his chin indicated he firmly believed he was superior and indeed had the upperhand in the rivalry that had just developed between himself and Tony.

I was served a cup of Earl Grey tea and a specaloo biscuit. I finished my book and donated it to the salon, Adrian Mole: The Prostate Years which is probably not recommended reading for any bloke 40+ but Charles seemed delighted to have a copy.

Charles has kept my colour formula on file - I may return before Christmas. I left a large tip for Gemma, who was the one who actually did all my work.

THE LANGUAGE BARRIER

They say that travel broadens the mind but sometimes I think it just boredoms the mind. Whilst in theory everywhere in Europe is easily accessible, in practice it takes a day to get anywhere. So eventually, after several hours in transit - the highlight seeing sun for the first time in four days, but sadly from above the clouds - I reached Edinburgh.

Whilst lingering at Copenhagen airport for the mandatory two-hour check-in period plus one-hour flight delay, aimlessly looking around the stores and not buying anything because Copenhagen is THE most expensive place I have ever set foot in (25% tax on everything, just for starters!), I mused on the fact that Scandanavians are a terrifying good-looking race.  I was very quickly brought back to earth on landing in Scotland and observing that the natives here aren't quite so tall, blond and thin. But they do speak English. Well, sort of.

Ah well, at least I can afford a taxi here. But it seems no one else can. As I followed the "Taxi' sign out of the airport I walked past innumerable bus stops and horrendously lengthy queues of people waiting to catch the coach into the city. Dragging my case behind me, I had almost walked as far as the car rental pick-up when I reached I tunnel with a sign "Taxis". I trudged through the tunnel to find four taxi drivers and no queue. I was even given a discount voucher.

On the subject of discounts, if you want to smuggle contraband in, Edinburgh Airport is the place to land. There are no customs officers officiously inspecting your customs form and waiting to randomly riffle through your carefully packed baggage and embarrass you by turfing out your smalls for all to witness. No, it's definitely an honour system here because there isn't even a clearly defined 'red' channel so if you have 'something to declare', you have to find your way to a specific desk. Which incidentally had no one manning it. But then when I thought about it, the duty free allowance is 10 litres (if you can carry that much) and who would want to buy whisky duty free when they are coming to Scotland, the holy land of whisky?

At my boutique hotel I was met and raced (literally) to my room in double-quick time by Ian, the owner. I can only assume he was in the middle of his dinner, watching Emmerdale Farm or talking to his long-distance lover. We had a slight moment of confusion (as he was backing hurriedly out of my room) because as we were sprinting up the stairs I had asked if there was internet access and he said he would get me the cord.

We got to the room and he said "12345678".

I looked him at him blankly. "That's the cord," he said.

"For what?" I said.

'The internet."

"Oh. Yes, the code .... and what about the cord?"

"What cord?"

"The cord for the ..... "

Oops, and then I got it. Cord/code ... geddit????

Ian on the other hand, still looked confused, but realising I had all I needed, raced off down the stairs to happily resume his black pudding, Neighbours or ironing his kilt.

DANISH DRAMA

I think living in the village has turned me into a tea addict. Whilst in Copenhagen I have drunk copious cups, but fortunately for me tea abounds in this city where the locals appear as fond of tea as they are of their pastries - although I have to admit I have not seen or eaten one Danish pastry since I've been here. But I have had plentiful cups of freshly-brewed Earl Grey leaf tea - the Danes also appear not to have heard of the teabag which is rather quaint.

Tea is also good for calming  nerves in a crisis which is just as well because my dear daughter managed to have a first order drama whilst I was here which naturally she wanted to share with me at 3.00am - namely losing her mobile phone with all her friends' phone numbers; losing the key to her room at university which is pregnated with numerous security codes and costs $500 to replace; and losing the key to her bicycle lock so her bike is now immoveable on a street in Copenhagen near the nighclub where she last parked it. On discovering her loss, she immediately taxi-ed herself to my hotel, woke up most of the street and the night porter, banged loudly on my door, regaled her tale of woe and then curled up in my bed and fell asleep. You can imagine I am very pleased I came to visit her.

Today we have had many of cups of tea whilst trying to second-guess whether (a) someone will find her phone and even her keys (b) where the phone and keys were lost (c) if someone finds her phone and keys whether they will contact her to return them. Once this detective work exhausted itself we went for another cup of tea so Tess could (a) berate herself for losing her phone and her keys (b) swear a lot about the cost of the replacement key (c) be ever so thankful that her calm mother (thankyou tea) was there to remind her she has a spare bike lock key.

I then returned to my hotel and had a peaceful cup of tea whilst reading my book and ruminating on the fact that I will be quite pleased to return to the relative peacefulness of Scotland tomorrow.

The nicest cafe where we had a cup of tea was called, appropriately, Teatime, where everything is themed in pink and white, including the sugar which had pink pieces of candy in it. I purchased a charming tea strainer, packaged with pink marzipan squares, for Dawn. I expect she has masses of tea strainers but I think one more won't go astray.

This is keyless, phoneless Tessa nursing her sore head in Teatime:

COPENHAGEN HIATUS

This weekend I am taking a wee break from village life as I head to the big smoke of Edinburgh and on to Copenhagen to visit my daughter, Tessa, who is studying there. I am missing out on a myriad of village activities: a day trip to the pottery at Glenshee; the Blairgowrie craft fair; Fair Trade coffee morning at one of the local schools; Clicking Needles; and the fortnightly coffee morning get-together in the village shop.

There will be a lot to catch up on!

HOMEMADE SCONES

What I'm discovering about country life is how long it takes to do the simplest things and how quickly the day gets eaten up.

This morning, for example, plans to have a leisurely breakfast and do some chores before heading up the hill to Dawn's for coffee were scuppered by a phone call from TNT, who would like to deliver a package from Australia. I imagined they were calling to check the address but no, I had to fill in a six-page customs form and fax it back. By the time I had printed off the form, filled it in, gone to the village shop to see whether they had a fax machine (yes), the post-mistress had had three gos at faxing the form before it went through, and had a natter to pass the time of day, it was time to telephone Dawn to announce my imminent arrival.

Dawn met me half way up the hill and I followed her car along a semi unsealed, pot-holed single track to her Norwegian log cabin which she and her husband Tony had built in the early 70s as their weekend escape. It looks back down towards the village and has a wonderful sweeping vista. The log cabin was originally sent across in pieces from Norway - an early kit home!

Dawn, now in her mid-80s, was immaculately dressed and had baked cheese scones and banana bread for us to have with our coffee. My first coffee of 2009 but Dawn is not the sort of person you can tell that you've given up coffee, especially when no alternative is offered, but it was delicious and I think I've fallen off the wagon.

Dawn talked for nearly two hours and I listened. I heard about how she met Tony in Canada, their whirlwind romance and their happy 54-year marriage, the other man she jilted, her nine grandchildren, the various places she has lived and how they came to retire to the village. Although now on her own, she seems to have masses of friends, is fit, lively and sharp as a tack. On December 13 she is throwing a party in the village, for no particular reason other than that she likes to give parties. I am invited.

Filled with cheese scones, the rest of my morning was spent filling a bucket firstly with ashes, then with several loads of wood and finally with two loads of coal. Having cleaned off my blackened hands, I then emptied all the bins, watered the flowers, swept the grate, did the washing up and generally tidied up because the cleaner is coming tomorrow. I can't have word going around the village that I am slovenly.

Paul knocked on my door to tell me the golf club phoned - they have found my camera!

MURDER ON THE TAY

Last night a former policeman came to the village hall to give a talk on "River Tay, its Lochs and Tributaries - Police Experiences". Now retired and in his late sixties, his career started as a local village bobby before being moved to the Traffic division where it appears he remained for the rest of his career, gradually being promoted through the ranks to sergeant.

About 20 people came to listen to his reminiscences (two pounds donation on the door with mandatory cup of tea provided). The knitting table had been tidied away and the room reconfigured in a classroom style. I was a couple of minutes late which meant introductions were momentarily halted and a scramble ensued while an extra chair and a suitable spot for me to sit was found.

It transpired that our bobby had two talks up his sleeve - one about experiences relating to road traffic and this evening's presentation, about incidents on the water. His talk, we were informed, would comprise some horrible and some hilarious moments, all illustrated by a slideshow.

Crime, as it turns out, is all relative. This part of Perthshire has certainly been the scene of a few gruesome episodes, no doubt the highlights of our bobby's career as these were the incidents he chose to recall for us. Whilst these were few and far between in the 60s and 70s, they certainly served as a backdrop, indeed excuse, to show off some beautiful photography of the local area.

The slideshow, far from being a sickening showcase of dead, mutiliated and decomposed bodies was a series of stunning landscapes featuring the River Tay, its bridges, burn (creek) beds and views across the countryside. Not a person, alive or dead, to be seen.

Our bobby would point his finger to a midpoint in a loch to explain that this was the spot where two drunken young lads fuelled by alcohol and a desire to show off to their girlfriends had taken out a leaky boat and, unable to swim, had drowned when it sank to the murky depths. Despite searching for hours in the Blue Bonnet (the boat used by the water traffic police) the boys could not be saved.

Another idyllic spot near a bridge was the place where a man flyfishing in his waders was seen gradually being sucked into mud. Our man and another cop from the local constabulary threw him a rope to pull over his head and around his chest so they could yank him out. Meanwhile the mud was sucking him further into the river and crowds began to gather. His wife called out for them to be careful - she was worried that the effort would do for him as he had recently had a heart attack. The policemen dragged with all their might on the rope but the mud kept sucking him down further, and by now the police were being pulled into the mud as well. Finally with a loud pop the fisherman flew out of his waders and onto the riverbank. On being rescued, his main concern was that no one should hear about this embarrassing event because he was a local politician. He was assured it would be kept quiet. But this was big news in Perthshire and the next day a photo of the rescue, taken by a local photographer, was front page news in The Scotsman.

The most gruesome story was accompanied by the most benign photograph - a shot of a pretty bend on one of the main roads. Now, whilst strictly speaking this was a road traffic story it had relevance for our talk because a car with three drunks in it careened off the road and into the loch. Two drunks had minor injuries but the third, the driver, was found with a shard of wood in his neck (he survived). Our bobby however was not satisfied that this was all as clear-cut as it seemed and pursuing his gut instinct, he found evidence to show that one of the other drunks had been driving. Establishing which drunk had been at the wheel proved a little tricky as they concocted a defence by both saying the other one had been the driver.  We were told that this was 'a very serious crime indeed' but one that only landed the eventual culprit two years in jail - which he appealed and got an extra year for his trouble.
 
You must be wondering about the hilarious story. Our bobby's sergeant was by all accounts not much liked, and was nicknamed Semmit - the Scottish word for vest - because 'he was always on your back'. On one occasion whilst trying to extract a drunken lass who had waded semi-naked into the river, Semmit decided to be the hero of the hour and take the wheel of Blue Bonnet from our bobby. Trouble was he had never driven a boat and he wheeled it not once but twice around the river at a hair-raising 25 mph, on both occasions heading straight for the poor girl causing her to scarper for her life and cling to the rushes at the edge of the river. Afterwards Semmit declared that every traffic policeman had to take boating lessons. Well really!
 
As you can imagine, this lecture was thirsty work and we all needed that cup of tea by the end.

GOLF STORY #3

Jeanette telephoned me from Edinburgh this morning, where she is sojourning for a few days. She had seen some 'proper' knitting bags, and would I like her to buy one for me? Then I wouldn't need to put my knitting in her basket when we go to Clicking Needles. I suspect she may be embarrassed at being seen offloading my squares and the possibility that the ladies think they might be hers. So I readily agreed to purchase a knitting bag, a bargain at seven pounds.

At 9.30 Paul came and collected me, my golf bag and Andy's golf buggy and off we went to Alyth golf course for 16 holes (holes 1 and 18 are under repair). I looked a bit like the Michelin Man - as it was a cold and wet day I had layers of sweaters topped off by wet weather golf gear. My right hand froze - next time I play I am going to be better prepared and buy hand warmers, a right hand glove and a pair of mittens. I'm glad I bought the Sherpa hat.

I was enchanted to see that this golf course also named all the holes - but only on the Ladies card as it turned out. Paul had not previously known that each hole had a name - maybe Scottish men consider it's soft to give golf holes a name? My favourites were The Teuchats Tryst (3), Heathery Muir (8), Tyke's Shank (13) and Ship Ahoy (2).

I carried a wee astro turf mat with me as every ball on the fairway had to be played off the mat, to preserve the turf. As I didn't see much of the fairway, I didn't have too many opportunities to use my mat. This might give you a reasonable indication of how I played although Paul did want to arrange another game with himself and the local QC - obviously he realises having me tag along is a great ego-boost.

Daftly, I took my camera thinking there might be some opportunity to snap some of the views or local wildlife but somehow I manage to lose it (the camera) - I think it dropped out on The Kirrie Road (6) where I lost a ball in the burn. So no photos for a few days until either it is found by a wayward golfer burrowing in the rough for his ball, or I buy a replacement.

It was getting dark by the time I got back to the cottage, just in time for Australian Jenny's knock on the door. She has recently taken over running one of the local hotels and is married to the local beekeeper. Bees have had bad seasons lately which is not good news for their line of honey and beeswax candles, but the hotel is the big project. I have offered to help write her brochure and lend a hand if they are short-staffed.

After two cups of tea and some chockie biccies, we had swapped potted life histories and agreed that whilst Scotland has its virtues, life should be organised to ensure it doesn't include extended time away from the blue skies of Australia.

CUP OF TEA CALLING!

In Sydney, the only people who knock on the front door without telephoning first are Jehovah's Witnesses, aspiring politicians and delivery people. In the village, a knock on the door replaces a phone call - and takes much longer, as usually there's a cup of tea involved as well. So there are some days when one is brimful of tea by the end. Even going to the village shop to pick up three tomatoes and an apple can involve a cup of tea, turning a five-minute expedition into a one-hour gossip.

Paul knocked on the door while I was having a cup of tea with Jeanette to ask if I would like to play a game of golf tomorrow. It was just as well I said yes because he had already booked the tee time. Paul is apparently very competitive, has a low handicap, and does not suffer a loss well. He is going to love playing with me, his ego will come away from the experience entirely in tact.

Gordon knocked on the front door accompanied by the meter man. On seeing I was already having a cup of tea with his wife, he declined to come and join us. Later he collared me to find out whether I was interested in learning the fiddle because he gives lessons. I explained that a short-lived flirtation with the violin in the Lower Third had decided me - and my long-suffering parents who had to listen to me practising - that I wasn't one whit musical. Gordon was not to be deterred and offered lessons instead in guitar or mandolin. I agreed to try the mandolin but only if he promises to fire me as his student once I prove I am completely useless. Gordon reckons anyone can learn. We will see.

As I was leaving, Gordon reminded me that I had expressed an interest in fly-fishing. Ah yes - but that was before I realised the weather would be too cold, I said. Och, nay, said Gordon - apparently if I dress up warm enough it will lovely out on the loch in the wee boat for THREE or FOUR HOURS!! Jeanette later told me that he is planning to organise a few people - there will be no escape from this outing, it seems. I checked the barometer - 2.5 celsius and dropping. I can feel my face, fingers and toes freezing over already and I don't think my wardrobe is up to the challenge although I did purchase a Sherpa hat the other day (a sheepskin affair with a rather fetching double-cuffed brim for extra warmth over ones ears).

After a few more knocks from the postman and two delivery men, Jenny, the only other Australian in the village, telephoned to arrange to come and knock on my door for a cup of tea. Jenny is from Queensland and she married the local bee-keeper. I am fascinated to know more.

This is the door of my cottage on which she will knock tomorrow afternoon. If you look closely enough you can see my laptop in the window; above is my bedroom and to the left is the living room with second bedroom above:

CLICKING NEEDLES

Today, being Monday, is Clicking Needles day, which I discovered is the official name of the knitting circle. Last night I finished my 13th square but decided that might be unlucky so I began a 14th before I went to bed. Jeanette had not finished her knitting 'homework', so she came round for a cup of tea this morning and we sat together at the dining room table for a pre-knitting bee knitting bee. I admired her baby fair isle sweater which she assured me has been a lengthy work in progress. She talked more than knitted, which I think partially explains why her little knit is a long time coming to fruition, but I managed to finish the 14th square:



Once at the knitting circle, the talk was all about the robbery last night which is big news in the village. Someone had got into Jean's potting shed and stolen four single duvets and a fireside companion set. There were TVs and double duvets there too, but these had not been taken. There has been one other robbery this year when a wood shed was broken into and some wood and a wood cutter stolen. Perhaps the burglar is gradually renovating a new home? Or maybe it's a disturbing sign of the changing times in a village where people rarely lock their front doors - something I find quite liberating but now I'm not so sure, if there is a cleptomaniac homemaker on the loose. Janet admitted she now locks her front door when she goes to her utility room. This caused some hoots of laughter for being rather posh - "int that tha scullery?"

Talk turned to the current smoke alarm problem. Dawn, a very elegant, elderly Canadian woman who came here with her Scottish beau she met during the war, was told when she bought her smoke alarm that the battery would last 10 years and 'see her out' (great cackles at this). But the smoke alarm beeped at 3.00am. She thought it was an owl but realising it was the smoke alarm disarmed it and put it in a cupboard. It still beeps. This also happens to Julia's smoke alarm, usually at 3.30am, and she is worried that if there is a real fire she will sleep through the alarm, as she has become so used to the beeping. Petrina took the battery out of hers but it still kept beeping so she massacred it with a knife. The consensus is that the local hardware store sold them a duff batch, way past their use-by date.

I've a feeling knitting squares might be a joke at my expense. The other ladies produced beautiful baby hats, bootees, socks and jackets; an extraordinary fluffy scarf; an Aran sweater; and a stunning cardigan with exquisite detail. I have decided it's time to up my game and I have appropriated a pattern for premature baby hats and some white wool - watch this space! As promised, here is a photograph of the flowers the ladies knitted:




Humbling, let me tell you.

REMEMBRANCE DAY

Remembrance Day is November 11, but church services were held today. I am not usually a churchgoer, except for Christmas Day, weddings, christenings and funerals. But I imagined that the Remembrance Day Service would be extremely well patronised so, a poppy in my lapel, I decided to go along.

The Church of Scotland village church is relatively new having opened 220 years ago - as mentioned before, the old church is in ruins - but built next to the graveyeard which has graves that go back to the Great Plague. Several were taped with fearsome orange duct tape, warning that the headstones were unstable.

As I entered the church just before 9.30am, all heads swung in my direction and I slithered into the back pew, next to one of the knitting ladies. I counted 17 in the congregation, and five attendants. Later, whilst having tea in the village shop/cafe, I was told that was an excellent turn-up, even though I estimated the church could seat 500. All were elderly and the silence, whilst we awaited the arrival of the presiding priest, was awesome. Only broken by one old lady heard to loudly say: "I make it gone half past".

We opened with Hymn 42. A bit of a dirge but fortunately the gentleman in front of me who had very large ears knew the tune and he sang very LOUDLY, if rather tunelessly, which helped the rest of us out.  I knew the tune to the second hymn, "O God our Help in Ages Past", but it was extremely difficult to sing along as the organist played so slowly it was virtually impossible to take a large enough breath to get through each stanza.

The priest prayed that we would not suffer 'war, pestilence or famine' (when was the last time someone updated the prayers?). After the lengthy sermon about war and man's suffering, he advised that 'the offering will now be uplifted'. This was the tricky bit - how much to offer? I strained to see what others were giving but they all had envelopes (like the charity ones given out on airplanes) so I emptied all my coins onto the plate which made a large clatter and looked rather offensively inappropriate amongst all the secret envelopes.

The communion service that followed actually came with waiter service. One of the attendants personally came and handed round real bread on a silver platter. Then the attendant picked up a large wooden platter with a handle, which had about 20 miniature glasses lowered into carved holes, and this was handed around. A rather nice port, as it turned out. Hanging over the back of the pew in front were silver holders in which to place the empty glass.

The final hymn was 'God Save the Queen' - which has three verses, written by two people about a century apart. And then everyone shuffled out, in silence, pausing only to shake the limp hand of the reverend.

As a reward for my heavenly endeavours, I stopped by the shop to collect my papers, The Observer and Scotsman on Sunday, and have a cup of tea:




I had a most interesting chat with Theresa and Mahri about landmark turning points in Scotland's history, in particular the Highland Clearances - not the introduction of store sales, but a time when whole families were forced out of their homes and off their lands to make way for sheep and the lucrative wool trade.

Theresa also told me that in its heyday the village had several thousand residents - which does explain a church built to house a congregation of 500. Today, I'm told the village population is about 400. The only wool trade, as far as I can gather, takes place on Monday afternoons at the Knitting Circle.

GREAT GRANDAD

Depending on one's political leanings, Oliver Cromwell is viewed either as a hero or a villian. For me, he is just my ninth great-granddaddy (in a direct line).  Indeed, my mother, in recent years, joined a Cromwell association in the UK, where such a direct descendant was welcomed with open arms, indeed revered by this collection of ardent Cromwell supporters.

To update those of you whose 17th century history may be a bit rusty, Oliver Cromwell was one of the army chiefs who defeated the royalists back in 1653 and for the very short time that Great Britain was no longer a monarchy after the execution of Charles 1, 9th great-granddaddy ruled as Lord Protector of Scotland, Ireland and England.

But what is quite spooky is that today I discovered that back in 1653, Oliver Cromwell's troops were stationed in my village whilst a battle raged in the churchyard. The cottage faces the old church and I can see the spire from my window, rising above the neighbouring houses:



This church is now de-commissioned and in a rundown state, seeking a new owner. But I wonder - are we drawn to where our ancestors laid claim? Could Cromwell have pitched his tent where I now pen these words?

However, I just hope I don't come to the same sticky end - he was buried in Westminster Abbey but when the royalists got back in power they dug him up, posthumously executed and beheaded him and stuck his head on a pole for 24 years for all to see. We have a less than wholesome picture of his head somewhere in a drawer, together with the family tree.

I checked out his picture on wikipedia - quite a family resemblance, I think, particularly the nose.

PS - My mother is a diehard monarchist. She is therefore not quite sure whether to be pleased or appalled about her lineage. I have no such qualms.

HALF A DAY IN THE LIFE OF ......

This is my typical day when there is nothing special to do - well, this was my day today:

7.00am  Wake up to the sound of the central heating / boiler starting up. Daydream for about half an hour. Look out at the garden to check the weather. My first frost!

7.30am  Stretch out for my book (A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks) and read whilst waiting for the heating to permeate.

9.00am  Get up. Have bath - this is not a preference, rather a necessity as there is no shower, but the bathroom is the warmest room in the cottage so it is not a hardship either.

10.30am After breakfast (which is NOT oats) I pull on thick socks, boots, scarf and warm jacket and stroll over to the village hall to pick up some more wool - I have now completed 6.5 squares and run out of pink double-knit. Peter was at the hall (as it is Petrina's day off) and he kindly pulls all the bags of wool out of the store cupboard for me. I select a ball each of dark pink and grey. He tells me that the knitting circle is the most successful project run by the hall and attracts the largest amount of people. I tell him he should join. He looks askance at me. Stop off at village shop on way back to cottage to collect The Scotsman as the posties are on strike again, but it hasn't been delivered yet. So I buy foil, a dishmop and coconut cream (who needs Tesco). Have a long chat with Marie who tells me about a marvellous walk and cafe in Blair Atholl. I promise I will go.

11.00am Back at the cottage I set up the printer that I ordered online and which was delivered yesterday. No USB cable. Rats.

11.30am Pull on boots, scarf and warm jacket, start up the car, the heater takes forever to get going so I fish in my pockets for gloves. Off to Blairgowrie for USB cable. It's 1.5 celsius. I find BBC Gael on the radio, spoken all in Gaelic, and I listen to it all the way to Blairgowrie even though I cannot understand anything except 'karoake' and 'Stornoway' but I like the guttural growly sound of it. Tesco (this is not just a supermarket, this is a lifestyle) has a USB cable. To make the journey worthwhile, I buy cheese and plums too.

12.45pm Get back to the cottage, park car, and stroll back to the village shop in miserable cold rain for my paper. Apparently the posties are no longer on strike so it will be delivered to the cottage. Have a chat with one of the knitting ladies who asks if I am missing the warm weather. I charmingly reply that I had not come for warm weather and wasn't that a lovely frost this morning?

1.30pm. Set up printer on the floor and make a mental note to see if Jeanette has a spare table in her attic I can borrow.

2.00pm Read The Scotsman over lunch, and put aside Episode 10 of Alexander McCall Smith's new Scotland Street book to devour later. I have four Episodes to read. I missed the first six because I was (maddeningly) reading The Times until I changed my paper order. For those of you who may not know - McCall Smith (of No 1 Ladies Detective Agency fame) broke new literary ground in 2004 by writing a chapter a day in The Scotsman of a story set in Edinburgh which follows the lives, loves and eccentricities of an eclectic group of individuals (most notably Bertie, aged 6). These daily 'episodes' were later published as a novel entitled 44 Scotland Street, which sometime later I stumbled across and read, and instantly fell in love with all the characters. I've read the subsequent four books in the series so I was ecstatic to discover that the sixth book has just gone into daily serialisation and I get to read it in its original publishing environment. Every day!

2.30pm Write blog entry for the day.

3.30pm Post blog, and off to make a cup of Earl Grey tea before turning my attention to my book. Yes! I have started putting pen to paper - or should that be fingers to the keyboard?

THE BEST PUB IN SCOTLAND

According to Lonely Planet Guide, the best pub in Scotland is Moulin Inn, which comes complete with its own brewery (for real ale fans). And it just so happens that Moulin Inn is on the outskirts of Pitlochry, the focus of my explorations today.

But first, accompanied by my marvellous neighbour and tour guide Jeanette, we drove over the moors (exquisite scenery - sigh!) and past Blair Castle (only open Tuesday and Saturday mornings in the winter) and stopped at Mrs Farthing's store. Mrs Farthing, formerly from Chester and then the Navy, now lives in Blair Castle as she and her husband double-up on security patrol there. Nice pad: http://www.blair-castle.co.uk/.

Her store is a magical little kingdom containing all manner of craftworks, created by Mrs Farthing, at this time of year predominantly Christmas decorations - wrapping ribbon with Christmas motifs and messages; wreaths made from local foliage; classy white paper chains with delicate cuts (remember, those ones you lick and interlock until your tongue goes dry and then you hang them across the ceiling and down door jambs).

On to House of Bruar (pronounced Brewer) which suddenly sprouts up on the roadside, a massive mass of stone structures comprising this very upmarket, very Scottish department store. It boasts a food hall to rival Fortnum & Masons or Harrods and fabulous, traditional clothing for the gentry. More tartan kilts, glamorous furs, wool throws and cashmere knitwear than you have ever seen in one place. I even spotted plus-fours.

Next stop Pitlochry, in search of sunglasses. Having not brought any with me as I could not imagine I would need them for a Scottish winter, it has rapidly become apparent that driving into the low glare of winter sun glinting off puddles is high-squint territory - not to mention what it will be like once the ground is covered in snow (with the sun glistening, hrmph!). Forty pounds later, I am the proud owner of Scottish sunnies.

By now we are gasping for a cuppa, and the Moulin Inn beckons:



Once inside, we settle by the log fire, sip our Earl Grey tea, nibble on shortbread, enjoy the pub decor and have a wee gossip. Ah, this is the life!

CUSTOMER SERVICE

What I hadn't reckoned with was that not only does the fire have to be built and lit but the ashes have to cleared out, and the coal and wood replenished.

So before breakfast, I found a tin bucket and swept the ashes into it, and then proceeded to empty the ashes into a plastic bag. But it had a hole in the bottom. Fortunately I was performing this procedure in the garden (no doubt much to the amusement of the neighbours). I then grabbed the coal bucket and headed for the bunker (which is in the garden down by the shed) for a refill.

My arrival coincided with the weekly coal delivery - the coalman was an interesting looking tall, dark fellow with a strong, silent manner and reminiscent of a brooding DH Lawrence or Thomas Hardy character as he tossed the large bags of coal over his shoulder and made his way down the path. His only words 'would ye like me to fill it?' as he saw me delicately shovelling coal into the bucket were met with a grateful 'yes' and he effortlessly tipped coal out of his bag and into my bucket.

Which was great, except I could hardly lift the bucket and I staggered like a drunk under the weight of it back to the cottage.

Then I filled three buckets with wood and put them in the old wall oven in the dining room to dry out (a useful tip from Jeanette).

Then I laid the fire ready for tonight.

Then I collapsed, exhausted but the day had only just begun and as it was sunny and warm - 3.5 celsius, shirtsleeve weather - I took myself off for 18 holes of golf - well, 17 actually, somehow I managed to skip Mallard (5th).

There then followed my second trip to the local supermarket (30 minutes drive away) which is not really worth remarking on except for the fact that everything is in completely illogical places (or rather, not where I would expect to find them at home). Which means having to constantly find a Tesco helper - and they are everywhere, very impressive service. The first thing I couldn't find was harissa (hmmph, they had never heard of it). The second thing was firelighters and the store assistant walked - yes walked! - me to the aisle and the shelf. How polite I thought.

But this is customer service Blairgowrie-style. Every time I couldn't find something an assistant would physically walk me to the correct shelf - frozen pastry (doesn't exist, you get fresh pastry sheets and they are located with the butter); coconut milk (only about 4 tins of light milk hidden behind the baked beans); serviettes (wedged between pens and light bulbs); tzatziki (Er?); porcini mushrooms (hidden behind the tea towels) .. and so it went on, shopping with a permanent store walker at my side to lead the way, terrified I would get lost, presumably. Or maybe my foreign accent was a dead giveaway.

Lesson for today - rethink the menu, start cooking Scottish-style.

COFFEE, CAKE & GUMBOOTS

Every other Tuesday there's a coffee morning in the village shop which doubles - or should that be quadruples - as the village post office, petrol station and cafe. Mahri (pronounced ma-ree) bakes the cakes. And what a fabulous array of cakes - chocolate, brownies, cherry, rocky road (isn't that Australian?) and Imperial biscuits.

A whole new crowd of women dropped by and we all sat cosily at tables pushed together in the shop/cafe window. Such a varied group, most not village natives but who came here via their own stories which I hope I will learn over the next few weeks. The new postwoman came by and delivered yesterday's paper to me as she couldn't find the cottage yesterday - her first day in the job. Half an hour later she popped in again with today's paper.

I had the honour of meeting two published writers who live in the village.  Adrienne, who I am told has published several books under a pseudonym seemed a little shy to tell me her subject matter, but I have made her promise to loan me one of her books.

Elaine, who is the cleaner at the village school and moved here from Fife a few years ago, writes poetry. Her book - Wee Verses from the Glens - is for sale in the shop, so I bought a copy. As I don't have a photo today, I thought I would share one of her poems, which very eloquently paints a picture of the local landscape:

Scottish Pride

The majestic hills around these parts
Have captured many souls and hearts
Fine views to take your breath away
Most who visit want to stay

Stags roam freely in the glen
Avoiding winding roads and men
Sheep just amble down the lane
Until the farmer takes them home again

Cascading rivers crystal clear
Wild heather growing everywhere
People come from far and wide
To marvel at our countryside

Later in the day, on returning from an afternoon's jaunt to Perth, a pair of gumboots was discovered in the garden bunker, much to the astonishment of Jeanette who was braving the rain to fill a bucket with coal. The brand new green gumboots are a loan from Mahri so I can avoid dirtying my fancy city-slicker shoes when I traipse across the muddy or wet garden. I can't wait to go out in them tomorrow so I can properly explore down by the river.

I think I am well on the way to becoming a country bumpkin ....

THE KNITTING CIRCLE

Jeanette invited me to come along to the the Knitting Circle which meets every Monday afternoon at the local village hall. I was a little dubious about what this might entail or how my knitting skills would shape up amongst true professionals but thought it would be a fine opportunity to meet some local women and have a yarn (!).

Well, what a marvellous assortment of people (who all mysteriously seemed to know who I was) -  I am sure this will become the social highlight of my week. I was expecting a draughty, uncomfortable, cavernous space but I was warmly welcomed into a cosy, carpeted hall laid out with a large table set with chairs, where a few women were already sorting out an enormous variety of donated balls of wool. My baptism by fire was to assist to categorise the 3-ply, 4-ply, double knitting and chunky wools.

The lady who runs all the village activities took me on a tour of the building and proudly showed me the vase of knitted flowers (which I will photograph because they beggar description). These intricate - if somewhat eccentric - artworks naturally made me a little nervous about just what I would be expected to produce.

Apparently a major knitting project had been finalised the week before (making 110 hats for premature babies) so there followed some debate about what the next project should be. I was greatly relieved when the decision was made to produce a blanket comprising 6" knitted squares. This will be donated to Rachel House - the local hospice for terminally ill children.

Armed with my No. 8 needles and pink wool, as advised by Marion I cast on 30 stitches (without dropping one, I was rather proud of myself) and then painstakingly knitted three or four rows, before she dangled a tape measure in front of me. Oh dear, my 6" square only measured 5".

So I undid all my careful stitching and re-cast on 38 stitches. A few rows later, I measured my second attempt. Oh dear. 7". But I think they felt sorry for me and said it could be squished up when the squares were sewn together.

Talk mainly centred around yesterday's massive rain storm which apparently flooded out several areas - this shocked but also relieved me, as last night I had assumed it was normal to see the river at the bottom of my garden almost break its banks. The weather here seems to dominate all conversation. This is the end of my garden on a clement day, by the way:



Homework for the week appeared to be to take my knitting home and finish the ball of wool (which is a rather large ball - I wonder if the ladies are having a joke at my expense). This is my endeavour so far:



But I also came home with several invitations to enter into my diary - a game of golf with Marie; a cup of tea with Jenny (the only other Australian in the village); carols at Blair Castle; a day trip to the Danish Fair; and a talk on "River Tay, its Lochs and tributaries. Police Experiences" (I do not joke).

HALLOWEEN

I'm told the population of the village is about 400 - and I think a good percentage of them rang my doorbell yesterday - mainly magnificently dressed up as witches, wizards, spooks and vampires:



This first group sang me a beautiful rendition of 'The Witches of Halloween' - and then proceeded to virtually clean me out of delicious Belgium chocolates (thanks to Jeanette who had left them as a welcome present when I arrived - otherwise who knows what 'trick' I might have endured).

The second group (well a young lad and his slightly older looking sister) turn up just as the fireworks are exploding on the other side of the river and it sounds as if the village is being bombed, they are so close. The smell of sulphur is delicious.

'Would ye like a dook?"

"A what?'.

"A dook.'

"A dook?'

"Aye, a dook."

"Oh! A joke! Yes please ...."

"What's a witch's favourite lesson?"

"Ummmmm .... ahhhhhh ..... errrr??"

"Spelling!"

Chocolates for you, young man.

Eight o'clock, and I am settling down to dinner when the bell goes again. Two very scary looking 11-year olds glare at me (oh yikes, I've only got ONE chocolate left). But I take no chances when they ask:

"Trick or treat?"

"Oh, definitely a treat ...." and I scarper to find Jeanette's other welcome gift - expensively foil wrapped chocolate biscuits - which these two miniature thugs happily grab in handfuls, before scuttling off down the pathway to scare their next victim.

But what struck me the most was that these kids had not only gone to enormous efforts - and presumably a lot of planning, giggles and fun - with their costumes, but they were traipsing around the village on their own, in the dark, (no parents in sight, they were sensibly at home enjoying a quiet wee dram), randomly knocking on any front door where they saw a glint of light. No stranger danger here!