MY BIRTHDAY TREAT

Now most people's birthday treat, once they reach my age anyway, is a lovely bottle of French champagne, a chocolate mud cake laced with calories or a visit to the beauty parlour. But oh no, none of that was good enough for my family who decided my birthday treat should be ..... tobogganing!

Despite the fact that I had never been tobogganing, even as a child, nor ever in fact embarked on any sport which involves downhill slopes and snow, they would not be deterred. I harboured a small hope that the village shop would not stock toboggans, thereby thwarting this dastardly plan, but no such luck - as ever our local store came up trumps.

My adorable family even went and scouted the local countryside for suitable hills to slalom down at breakneck speeds and unfortunately for me, found a friendly farmer only too willing to offer his field for the purpose. The fact that a fast flowing burn ran at the bottom of the slope did not seem at all suspicious to my family. Haven't they heard that not all Scots approve of anyone from south of the border?

As the day progressed and the clock showed 2.00pm I decided that the plan had obviously been shelved, as darkness would soon be upon us. Young Max, aged 11, had stayed overnight with me and we had spent until 1.00am last night playing Scrabble, before advancing to Rude Word Scrabble (double points for every dirty word) in the morning. We were about to start our third game for the day when there was a rat-a-tat-tat on the door, and with the arrival of my brother Johnny, my fate was sealed. I was given five minutes to dress up (thermals and two pairs of socks mandatory for this extreme sport) before having my so-called 'treat'.

Nine of us and two dogs headed for the farmer's field. There was much chuckling amongst the gathered throng who seemed to think it was a hoot that they were going to get Auntie Sarah sliding down a Scottish  hill on her backside and hopefully ending up rolling over in several feet of snow.

The boys showed me my equipment:



I gingerly sat on my toboggan (looked more like an oversized short-handled plastic shovel to me) and set off.

"Lie back!"



"Put your legs in the air!"

"PUT YOUR LEGS IN THE AIR!"





Och, it was a braw day! Thanks guys!

A SPORRAN HANDBAG

Gillian, Jeanette's daughter, has inherited her mother's love of shopping and seeking out quirky and interesting places to find unusual treasures. With her mother and Jean we spent the day crossing large areas of Scotland in search of fur coats, bargains and generally eclectic items.

On our way to an antiques centre at Abernyte, about and hour and half's drive away, Gillian told of us her recent visit with her mother to the Poundsworth Shop in Blairgowrie.

"So, Mum picks up an item and asks the assistant, 'how much is this?'

"'A pound', says the assistant.

"'Oh, right,' says mum and picks up another item. 'And this?'

"'A pound', says the assistant.

"'Oh, right,' says mum and picks up another item. 'And this?'

"'Yes, a pound,' says the assistant.

"'Oh, says mum, light dawning. 'So everything in here is a pound?'"

At the antique centre we find dozens of fur coats and parade around for a while, admiring ourselves in minks and foxes. Gillian settles on an outrageous fur stole. I am more modest and find a mink butterfly brooch:



This however, turned out to be merely an appetiser for the main course yet to come: a trip to meet Janet Eagleton MBE, the only remaining traditional sporran maker in Scotland. A visit to her shop is truly a unique experience as she does not sell to other retail outlets because there are pretenders who try to copy her sporrans by sending photos of her designs to China for manufacture. But these are pathetic imitations lined with cardboard, not leather, that fall apart and often cost twice as much as the real thing - a rip-off for the unwary. Janet's sporrans are all made by herself and her son in her own workshop. http://www.scottish-sporrans.co.uk/

In the window of Janet's unassuming shop in the centre of Perth, hang a variety of sporrans. Big ones, small ones, hairy ones, dangly ones, black ones, yellow ones. Janet is maker for the Black Watch, the Royal Family and Billy Connolly. She is now also maker for Sarah Hawthorn, because Janet invented the sporran handbag which is an exact replica of a sporran but with a handle, rather than  belt.

I am now the proud owner of this beauty, fashioned from goat hair:



Eat your hearts out, fashionistas!

MORE SNOW TALES

The snow has become the focal point of managing our daily lives. A whole day can be lost in the seemingly small task of delivering a loved one to the railway station. Thanks to the intervention of Gordon, yesterday Ed was safely dispatched onto a train for Edinburgh. Now I need to say farewell to Tess but my car is still under a foot of snow, wedged up the back lane. I agonise on how often I can impose upon my neighbour's goodwill to get various members of my family back 'down south'.

Rescue arrives in the shape of my sister and family who arrive to stay in their new 4WD. Hooray! A car to get my daughter Tess to her train in the morning! Plans were made to leave in plenty of time to get her to Perth for the Edinburgh train.

Overnight a hard frost covered the snow which gives the landscape a silvery twinkle but also heralds a deathly chill. Temperatures plummeted to -14.5. The heating in my sister's rental accommodation gave up the battle. Frozen to the bone by early morning and with ice coating the inside of their windows, they were glad to get back into the 4WD to take Tess to Perth. At least the car had a fairly reliable heating system although warmth never seemed to reach our feet. At Pitlochry railway station there was signal failure, and as the Edinburgh train comes through here from Inverness, all the trains were running late. Two hours later, a train chugged into Perth and we waved Tess goodbye and headed back to the village.

The heating in my sister's apartment was still temperamental so we decamped to the pub where a welcoming log fire burned. Eric, reliably, was propping up the bar. Discussion ensued on why their boiler had given up the ghost. The common consensus was that the oil pipes had frozen. After all, this is the worst winter Scotland has encountered for 20 years.

Eric told my family that he was born 1946 which was another unbelievably cold winter. So cold in fact, that his mum had to put snow chains on his pram wheels. This tale 'broke the ice' and once my brother Johnny learned that Eric was an expert on local whiskies, he asked him would he please talk (or drink) him through all the local varieties?  Eric looked up, pondered his response, and said, 'They're all not bad.' Thus bonded, they proceeded to drink beer and whiskey chasers til closing time.

Conversation once more turned to the weather. Another five inches of snow is expected. In anticipation that their boiler won't make it through the night we find hot water bottles and extra blankets for the family. I hope they don't end up looking like this unfortunate woman:

LIFE IN A COLD CLIMATE

1. There is always iced cold water available to drink straight from the tap. This saves on electricity needed to make ice cubes. But it is not so successful in a gin and tonic.
2. You need to allow plenty of time for the hot water to make its way through the freezing cold pipes before washing, unless you went to boarding school in which case this will probably not be a problem for you. I did not go to boarding school.
3. Note to self: never let coal supplies in the cottage run down as in the coal shed the lumps of coal freeze and stick together, making it impossible to shovel.
4. Wear trousers as hurdling abilities may be tested because the latch to the gate freezes over, making it impossible to open.
5. A hard frost in the morning looks beautiful when you look out of the window. When it is still there at 3.00pm in the afternoon, you realise the temperature didn't rise above zero.
6. Towels dried on the washing line go stiff. Very stiff. So then it's like drying oneself with an exfoliator.
7. One's nose and eyes run all the time, especially early in the morning on the golf course. It is hard to blow one's nose with two pairs of gloves on.
8. Always have a credit card handy to scrape the frost and ice off the windscreen.
9. Remember to start the car engine 15 minutes before it's time to depart. Don't keep the can of de-icer in the car because it makes it too cold to handle.
10. When it snows, all is forgiven because life looks like this:*









11. You need a thoughtful neighbour like Gordon who gets up early to clear the pathways and grit them, so we don't slip over walking up the lane to the shop.
12. The children bring out sleds and their joyful voices can be heard wafting over the river as they cavort happily around the school playground all bundled up and looking like little puffins.
13. Only Jimmy can make it up the hill in his big truck. Even Roy the postie gets defeated by the large snowdrifts so the hilltop residents are bereft of mail.
14. The newspaper delivery grinds to a halt so you are oblivious to any news except what you hear on the local grapevine, which is all weather-related as that's the only thing anyone is interested in.
15. An electric blanket becomes your best friend.

Photos courtesy Tessa

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED

At 3.00am I woke up and looking out of the window, saw that snow was beginning to fall. As I fell back to sleep, I hoped that it would only be a light dusting as Tessa's friend Ed was leaving in the morning and I would need to drive him to the railway station. When I checked again a few hours later, my car was once again buried under about six inches of snow and the back lane once again impassable. Oh dear.

At 9.00am there was a loud knock on the door. Gordon was standing in six inches of snow. In a voice that brooked no argument he told me that he would take Ed to Pitlochry station in his 4WD, but he would like to allow an hour and a half for the journey, which normally takes 30 minutes. I blessed Jeanette for the kindest husband in the world.

"Can Tess and I come with you?" I asked.

"Oh yes," said Gordon. "I've got a couple of extra shovels in the back of the car so you can help dig me out if we get stuck."

The snow ploughs had not cleared the road so the drive was very slow but oh so beautiful. The sheep were buried to their tummies. Icicles hung by the foot from gutters. We passed Andrew on skis, making his way to the village shop. This is Gordon standing in the middle of the road. As you can see, there is no road.



Finally we made it to the railway station. As we turned into the carpark, we saw a large sign to say all trains were cancelled. The railway tracks were under about a foot of snow. The main road to Perth and Edinburgh was closed. Ed remained remarkably calm, especially considering he was due to fly out to Sydney, with seemingly no way of leaving Scotland.

But these Scots are not easily deterred by a bit of bad weather. Gordon decided that we would risk the main road to Perth and trust that the snow ploughs had come through. By now we were all heartily glad to be in such safe hands, and in a car which could get through the snow - others had not been so lucky and had slid into drifts at the roadside.

At 11.51 we drew into Perth railway station. The only train to Edinburgh was leaving at 11.57am. I gave Ed a packed lunch and piece of Mahri's chocolate cake. We waved him off, hardly believing our lucky timing.

It was a good job we didn't need to stop for petrol:



Footnote to my mother:
Our return journey on the road more travelled, which you will use, had been ploughed and a thaw was starting.

A HARE OF THE DOG

Like everyone else around the world, on Boxing Day we headed out for a long walk to clear our heads and shakedown bodies filled with copious portions of rich food and an overabundance of alcohol. Heading for a pub therefore seemed like best option, so we could look forward to rewarding ourselves with a hot toddy on reaching our goal.

The snow had still not begun to melt. A layer of frost had frozen the lid to the garbage bin which attempts with de-icer did not melt, so we are still surrounded by Christmas detritus until we can prise it open. Even the deer have not ventured back, despite a bowlful of food scraps which Gordon left out for them.

Undeterred, we went through the usual lengthy dressing up ritual - boots, scarves (knitted by yours truly), hats, gloves, coats - and set forth through the village, over the bridge, up the hill, past the old cemetery and the new cemetery until we reached the inn. As it was not yet opening time, we went further on up the hill as I decided to take Tess and Ed to meet Dawn, and to make sure that she was alright, as she has been snowed in ever since the first blizzard a few days ago.



Despite the warning sign, we didn't see any squirrels.

Dawn saw us coming up the hill and came to greet us, insisting we come in for coffee. Grateful for the warmth, once we were seated she regaled Tess and Ed with a stream of stories about the war and meeting her husband, interspersed with general village chatchit. Brian and Selina arrived with the carcass of yesterday's turkey and their labrador dog; Bertram and Pat arrived with their sheepdog. Dawn was obviously in good hands. We declined an invitation to stay for lunch and turkey leftovers, but made our way back down to the inn for toasted baguettes and red wine.

Various locals started to fill the bar, the inn a well-situated half-way house for a Boxing Day perambulation around the village environs. Tess played Mama on the jukebox, probably because during our walk she declared I spoke like a character from an Austen novel when I had asked, "Ought we not walk a little faster?".

As we crunched our way back home, the light was beginning to fade, and we decided to make mulled wine. Jeanette and Gordon had given me all the ingredients for Chrismas, including a mug to drink it from in the shape of Santa's boot. They had given the same to Jean and John. John, unsure what purpose a cinnamon stick served, had tried to light and smoke it. He said it tasted foul. He must therefore have been a bit bemused by Jeanette and Gordon's choice of gift, but he was too polite to say so!

MERRY CHRISTMAS

A Big Day:

Midnight mass. Cancelled due to severe weather conditions.

9.00am. Recovering from hangover. Last night, my brother Nigel, partner Kathy, daughter Tess and her friend Ed all squished around my dining table for fish pie and copious bottles of wine. Afterwards we went to the local pub and drank far too many beverages with Henry, Pat and Eric. Coffee needed this morning!

11.00am. No church service, so we open presents.

12.30am. Jeanette, Gordon and daughter Gillian arrive for champagne. With eight people in the cottage all talking at the tops of their voices and crammed into my little sitting room, the atmosphere becomes festive and a little raucous. Hangovers receding.

1.45pm. We head up the hill to the hotel for Christmas lunch. Five courses: Parsnip soup; melon and berries; champagne sorbet; roast turkey (with Yorkshire pudding - apparently this is not a Scottish custom, rather the kitchen had made extra because patrons were complaining only those who had ordered beef got Yorkshire pud); Christmas pudding and brandy custard; mince pies. Red wine, white wine ....

4.00pm. Gordon invites us back to their cottage for a drink. Jean and John turn up as well. We play Pass the Bomb (I win!). Gillian and Tess dress up in milkmaids' outfits and wigs. I am persuaded to dress up in a slinky gold lame dress and a wig not dissimilar to that worn by Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Tess negotiates a guitar lesson with Gordon. An expedition to source more mink coats is planned. We drink more than is reasonably good for our livers.

8.30pm. We stagger home and raid the fridge for smoked salmon and chocolates, drink more wine and sit around talking gobbledegook.

11.00pm. Turn on TV. Slump in front of fire. Start dreading tomorrow's hangover.

A great day!

CAROLS IN THE VILLAGE

Through two feet of snow we turned out in the dark and frosty night at 5.30pm for Christmas festivities at the village shop. Santa, carol singing, lollies, hot drinks and a BBQ ( a BBQ??) had been extensively advertised.
With knowledge aforethought that for some mad reason this party would take place outside, Tess and I wrapped up in thick scarves, woolly hats, fur gloves and for me, my mink coat of course.

First up was mulled wine in the village shop, which meant a certain amount of de-robing as we became gradually more over-heated. Paul was playing the role of Santa, handing out lollies to the rather small number of children who had turned out, as most of the villagers were unable to get out of their houses because of the snow. Small children would doubtless have been up to their little waists were they to try walking down the hill to see Santa. This year Santa had a pillow shoved up his jacket because he's been on a major diet - the global problem of obesity has even reached out to this plump benefactor who now has to pretend to be fat. Ho ho ho.

Sally then amassed our rather small group outside the shop to sing carols. A sheet with ten (ten!) carols was handed out, and we began singing, somewhat slowly Away in a Manger. By the time we reached Carol No. 3, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, I decided to speed up the singing before we all froze in a little circle, immortalised forevermore, statue-like, on the shop forecourt. The assembled singers immediately picked up speed, but by this time our glasses of hot mulled wine had chilled and we were stamping our feet to keep warm.  By Song No. 6 Sally was saying "Let's skip this one". We sang a fast-paced Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer before battling with Little Donkey which no one seemed to have heard off, and skipping carol No. 9. We finished with a rousing We Wish You a Merry Christmas.

"What is figgy pudding?" I asked.

"A pudding with figs," said a wag.

Actually, no one seemed to know. So we all dashed back into the shop for more mulled wine. Earlier in the day, due to the severe weather conditions, the BBQ was cancelled. Thank heavens, sanity prevailed!

But the evening was yet young. So Paul, Gilmour, Mahri, Tess and I went up main road, still slushy with snow, to the hotel for a few more drinks. A snow plough came roaring down, taking up the entire middle of the road, the only part which was cleared for traffic. As I was finding my way in the dark by following the central white line whilst trying to avoid the ice, my only life-saving option was to dive into the roadside verge which was banked up with several feet of snow. I arrived at the bar very wet and with white, snowy legs.

In front of the log fire we downed a few glasses of beer, whiskey and wine, and listened to visitors' increasingly heroic tales of how they had navigated the appalling conditions to make it safely to the village for Christmas. We all crossed our fingers that there wouldn't be another dump because that would surely bring all transport to a complete standstill. Then we merrily headed home to finish our gift wrapping, baking and final preparations.

REINDEER SIGHTINGS

Deer have been sighted in the garden three nights in a row. Real deer. We think maybe they are attracted by Rudolph and Bambi. Certainly they are attracted to Ronnie's vegetable patch because they ate his brussels sprouts last night, and one was seen gambolling away with a large sprout in its mouth. (Some people might think this is just Ronnie's excuse not to have to eat his sprouts with his Christmas dinner.) They have also chewed Jeanette's flowering plants, and left hoof prints all across the snow. We are amazed they come so close to the houses, but they do so under cover of night. Our three neightbours have all now seen them, so our household will need to be more vigilant to spot them before they eat up all Ronnie's veggies..

I drove back from collecting daughter Tessa from Edinburgh airport yesterday, alternately through thick fog and glaring low sunshine and temperatures that gradually fell from -0.5 to a very chilly -13.5. Once it got to about -5 it became impossible to clean the windscreen as the washer fluid just turned to ice as soon as it hit the glass. By -7.5, the fluid resolutely refused to spray, the nozzles must have iced over. I made a mental note to add more anti-freeze as it's impossible to drive in these conditions without wiper fluid as the road and other cars continuously spray up muddy globbules, making visibility a nightmare.

Such resolutions were quickly forgotten when we woke up this morning and another foot of snow had fallen overnight. Our deer were up to their tummies in it:



My car had to be dug out of the snow BY ME with a shovel (Tessa vanished like a sprite into thin air). Our laneway was completely blocked and every time I thought I'd dug enough snow, the tyres would burn rubber and more snow had to be shovelled until finally I managed to slide up the lane and onto a very snowy road so that Tess and I could get to Blairgowrie for some last minute Christmas shopping. There were hardly any cars on the road which wasn't surprising as all the side roads were blocked, and even the main road was quite treacherous. The snow has taken everyone by surprise and travel by air, train or road is severely disrupted. We wonder if our guests from London will make it up tomorrow.

Safely back at the cottage and there was a loud rap at the door. Gordon was standing behind an enormous bouquet of flowers. This time we both knew who they must be from as only one person is known to organise completely over-the-top flower displays for his Australian wife. A correct assumption. The more difficult question was where to house them. I was glad Jeanette and Gordon had enjoyed them for a day.

Mahri trudged over from the other side of the village with my cake that she has baked: chocolate and bitter orange. It is absolutely beautiful, we will be sorry to have to cut into it, but that would be an insult to Mahri so later today Tess and I will conduct a taste test:



I don't think anyone would be fooled if I pretended I'd made it, either.

CHRISTMAS PREPARATIONS

The Big Day is drawing near and last minute preparations are underway. An air of quiet panic pervades the village as people madly deliver last-minute cards and race about doing shopping, all somewhat hampered by a huge dump of snow:



I have commissioned Mahri to bake me a cake because I don't think shop bought is quite the done thing for guests at Christmas-time. We  negotiated terms yesterday as it turns out she usually only bakes cakes to be eaten by the slice with cups of tea at the village shop. But I am not a cake baker and I have lots of visitors coming over the next week, including four teenage nephews who I suspect will expect more than a biscuit with a cup of tea. Mahri is considering what type of cake she will bake me. All I know at this stage is that it will be filled with butter icing rather than cream, and will be ready for collection either on Wednesday or Thursday. I'm wondering if it would it be terribly deceitful to try and pass it off as homemade by yours truly?

The snow was so heavy yesterday I couldn't make it to the big carol service in the next village which was very disappointing as I was looking forward to mince pies with the vicar and some hearty renditions of Hark the Herald Angels Sing. I had planned to go with Dawn, Selina and Brian but they live up the hill and although Brian could put chains on his car tyres it was still felt too dangerous. On the other hand, we are expected to visit them for afternoon tea tomorrow. I suppose we can always walk up and then slide back down the hill on our backsides.

Gordon has become obsessed with fairy lights. Not only are there the two deer and the Christmas tree in the garden, but these were joined a few days ago by a second lit Christmas tree and twig-like shrubs planted along the footpath. Today I spotted him up a ladder hanging fairy lights all around the eaves of the garden shed. According to Jeanette, who is equally bemused by this explosion of fairy lights, he has now exhausted the supplies. At least my guests will have no difficulty finding us.

Today was the day of the Big Supermarket shop. First I had to find my car:
 

 
I also have plans to go to House of Bruar, our local equivalent of David Jones or Fortnum & Mason Foodhall, to buy some extra special bits and pieces. They sell bite-sized haggis which I plan to hand out as canapes with evening drinks and pass off as meatballs, otherwise the sassenachs from England will refuse to eat them. However, with the snow we have been experiencing I may have to postpone this trip as the store is a good hour's drive across the moors, along a back road that is currently even snowier and icier than here. So they may get meatballs after all - I suppose I can pretend these are haggis?

It was the last Clicking Needles yesterday. We have made 60 hats for premature babies which are being delivered to the the hospital tomorrow. We celebrated with sherry, a cup of tea (of course) and Christmas cake, which was a good idea to warm us up because the heating had been turned off:

POST & MAIL

Roy, the postman, is at the heart of village life. He faithfully delivers mail and newspapers each day, even during bad weather making it up the treacherous icy hill to outlying homes even though Royal Mail does not provide him with a 4WD. Many of the older residents who live on their own and can be isolated for weeks at a time, rely on him to check on their welfare and that they are still alive and kicking.

But at Christmas time, the locals deliver all their cards to each other by hand. Although there is one anomaly to this. If you don't know someone's address or can't reach their home, there is a special box in the village shop. A small donation and the cards will find their way to their recipients - I suspect delivered, stampless, by our local postie.

Whilst I have met many people, it is true to say that I hardly know anyone's surname or address. As there are a lot of Jeans, Sallys, Maries, Gillians etc., leaving cards in the shop box was not a solution for me as undoubtedly even our saintly local Santa would have difficulty knowing to whom and where he should deliver my good wishes.

Then there was the additional issue of not wishing to seem presumptuous by giving cards when perhaps it is not de rigeur on such short acquaintance?

That fear was overcome once cards started to be hand-delivered to me through my front door. I was quite delighted at this unexpected treat. I decided I would give cards to the few people whose addresses I knew and that way, I too could hand deliver my cards. Thus it was that I set out a week or so ago and dropped a few cards into letterboxes, thus returning the Compliments of the Season.

At Clicking Needles last Monday Jean arrived with a bundle of cards and handed them out to some of the ladies. On Tuesday, Kate brought her cards with her on our shopping excursion to the Danish Christmas shop and gave several to those on the trip. On Wednesday at our girls' night, Petrina and Marie had piles of cards with them which they passed out. Cards are passed between neighbours to deliver when they are 'going that way'. And so it goes on.

By now I had quite a shelf of cards, and even a couple of gifts for 'under the tree'. So I wrote cards for everyone I had met, which I put into my handbag to give out whenever opportunity knocked. When I mentioned that in Sydney we generally always post our cards, I blushed with city guilt to hear Jackie say, aghast, that she knew someone in Fife who actually put a stamp on the card for her next door neighbour and posted it. Imagine! If you post mail in the village postbox for a local, it gets collected and sent all the way to Edinburgh for sorting before coming back here again. No wonder the practical solution of a local's box in the shop was devised.

Whilst enjoying afternoon tea on Saturday and admiring more than 200 cards already decorating Dawn's home, discussion turned to the marvellous job our postie Roy performs for the village. Jeanette was disgruntled to learn Dawn had two Christmas kisses from him last year; she only had one, so plans are afoot to capture him under a large bough of strategically placed mistletoe, and address the deficit!

BRAVING THE ELEMENTS

Thirty minutes ago the sun was shining and this morning's frost was melting. I went to make a cup of coffee and then happened to glance out of the window and saw that in a few short minutes there had been a sudden change in weather circumstances:





A blizzard is enveloping us!

A yeti lookalike just walked past my window and knocked on my door. It turned out to be a snow-covered Paul who had braved the elements with a bottle of 1997 Chassagne Montrachet from his cellar for me to try. Well, it certainly will not need chilling down.

Another knock on the door and a frozen looking Kate was standing there clutching a basket, delivering a dozen eggs freshly laid by her chickens. She tells me it is -4 degrees. I find the tartan draught excluder and push it against the front door.

Last night in the local pub I met Eric, who is famous around these parts for his handyman skills and sense of humour. He should also be noted for his weather forecasting skills, as he predicted snow today.

Eric told us about the day he had donned a suit and gone into Glasgow with his son. They went to a pub where a young man came over to him and asked, "Do ye have a smoke?". Eric fished in his pocket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to him. "Nay," he said, "not that kind." Eric's son leaned over and told his dad the bloke wanted to buy marijuana. "He thought I was a drug baron because of my suit!" declared Eric.

On the wall of the pub are two photographs, taken just a few miles up the road. One of a derelict crofter's cottage, and the other of a roadside memorial stone to a man called Souter who died in 1869. Apparently Souter had cycled through the snow to get the cottage on a Good Samaritan errand and just a few minutes from his destination had become caught up and disoriented in a blizzard and, according to the engraving, had 'perished' in the fierce storm.

Shortly I am due at Marie's for afternoon tea. She lives at the far side of the village, about twenty minutes walk away, but I have never visited her farm before and just like Mr Souter I may well get lost in the snow, so in the words of Lawrence Oates, "I am just going outside and may be some time."

THE BIG O, MORE CAROLS, ELVES

During 2009 a new tradition began in the village: to celebrate those having a big '0' birthday with a grand afternoon tea. These teas, I had heard, comprised 'fizz' (champagne), homemade cakes and of course, the ubiquitous pot of tea.

So I was very honoured to be invited to Gillian's 70th party at her home and quite unprepared for the table heaving with food at four in the afternoon. But enormously glad I had decided not to eat lunch.

After a few glasses of 'fizz' served in Marie Antionette champagne glasses, so called because they were fashioned in the shape of her breasts, we were ushered to the dining room to eat:

1. Mushroom vol au vents
2. Quiche Lorraine
3. Sausages
4. Cheese puffs
5. Scones with cream and jam
6. Cucumber sandwiches (with the crusts off)
7. Gateaux (made by my golfing partner, Paul)
8. Chocolate cake
9. Iced cupcakes
10. Truffles

And then back to the living room for more glasses of fizz.



These Big 0 birthday parties have been so successful, that Teresa suggested Big 5 birthdays should also be celebrated as there was a danger that a year or two might pass without a Big 0. On-the-spot research showed that two of those present would celebrate a big 0 in 2010. Mahri thought she might be celebrating hers in either 2011 or 2012 but as she stopped counting after 40 she'd need to double-check her birth certificate.

Jean had also recently celebrated a Big 0 so we signed hand made cards (the ladies in the village don't believe in shop bought) for her and Gillian and then each was given a bouquet of flowers and they were asked to sing. Jean, who last Sunday sang in the choir at Blair Castle's Christmas carols, led the way with We Wish You a Merry Christmas.

Whilst I had not attended Blair Castle's carols, I had coincidentally been there last Saturday with my visiting friends Kathy and Christine who I had flatted with in my college days. It is a rather eccentric looking edifice, built in the 19th century, but quite fascinating.



On arrival, we headed straight to the ballroom and were given glasses of hot mulled wine to warm ourselves in front of the log fires. We were also given 'Elves at Blair Castle - A story of Christmas' to read. Thirteen elves were dotted around the Castle and it was our task to spot each one and write down their names.  At the end we would be able to answer the question: "What carol did the children sing on Christmas Day".

My suspicion that this activity was meant for the under-12s was confirmed when we were also provided with crayons to colour in elf drawings, but nevertheless Kathy was determined we would complete the task.

The elves were to be found dangling from a chandelier, perched on a piano, peering at ancestral portraits and posed amongst the hundreds of stag heads the lined the corridors. Kathy diligently spotted each elf and then worked out that their initials spelled Away in a Manger.

Christine is the intellectual looking one on the left; Kathy is the other one, whose preferred leisure activities include stalking Santa's little helpers:

QUIZ TIME

I tell you what, they take their Christmas VERY seriously in this part of the world. Either that, or the whole village boned up on Christmas trivia before last night's Christmas Quiz at the pub.

Jeanette, Kate and I formed a ladies team which we called The Three Wise (wo)Men. We would have been six, but three fell by the wayside after too much fizz at the 70th birthday party earlier in the day. We paid one pound each to enter ($2) and the pub also provided mince pies to sustain us during the quiz, and chicken and chips afterwards. A bargain!

First of all we had to identify pictures of various celebrities dressed up as Santa. Most of the pictures were either fuzzy or taken at some considerable distance, adding to the degree of difficulty. We managed to identify David Beckham and Sean Connery but stumbled over a very young Elvis, Brad Pitt and Jack Nicholson. This one of course was easy (answers to me in 25 words or less on a postcard, please):



Then the real business began. Here is a sample:

• What was the name of Rudolph's father?
• What instrument was Silent Night written for?
• Which of its machinery did Addis Brush Company use to manufacture its first Christmas trees?
• What sustenance do Danes leave out for Santa?
• What was Cliff Richard's last Number One Christmas hit?
• How many children did Bob Cratchit have?
• What year did NORAD start tracking Santa's journey around the world each Christmas Eve?
• Who sang Fairytale of New York with The Pogues?

Now questions such as this tell me one of two things - either my childhood was dismally deficient when it came to learning about Christmas traditions and I fall asleep before the TV specials; or the landlord of the local pub is trying to self-destruct by implying he is far brainier than any of his patrons. Regardless, the only questions I knew the answers to were:

• What is the star sign of someone born on December 25th (the same as mine)
• What colour are mistletoe berries? (but everyone else on the team knew this too)
• What town was Jesus born in? (ditto)

The Three Wise (wo)Men scored 16 out of 39 and tied for bottom spot with - how embarrassing - the only other team to include an Australian. This is not good for national pride.

The winners managed 29 correct answers which publican Catherine declared a very low score, although she conceded that even she couldn't get any of the pictorial questions which her husband had researched (Ha! Told you!). Mind you, the winners did have the largest team with six of them. However, they beat Paul and Gilmour who always win, so there was much jollity about that.

Landlord, another round please!

GIRLS NIGHT IN

As I sit down to write this, glancing through the window to check on Rudolph and Bambi I can see snow starting to fall. I also notice that a fully grown Christmas tree has suddenly sprouted up behind the deer - complete with fairy lights. Ain't Santa grand? Or is this merely competition between neighbours with rival deer in their gardens?



Last night I was invited to Kim's for a Girls Night In. As she lives on a large property just outside the village, four of us convened at Jeanette's house first. Superbly, this offered another opportunity to wear my mink coat. Not to be outdone, Jeanette had also jumped on the fur bandwagon, raided her wardrobe and found a stunning mink-alike coat. Mahri, on the other hand, arrived bare-legged in six inch stiletto heels.

Out came a bottle of Bailey's and cherry brandy liqueur chocolates to start off the evening. Jeanette passed around boxes filled with Christmas decorations for us to adorn her enormous tree which fills her dining room window from floor to ceiling. As we tanked up with festive cheer, the four of us found various trinkets, baubles and bells to hang from its branches.

Warmed inside, we set off, Mahri teetering up the lane on her heels with me by her side in sensible rubber soled Ugg boots. One moment we were chatting and the next I was flat on my back, having slipped on black ice. Thankfully the landing was softened by my mink coat, and I was still holding aloft a platter of sandwiches and bottle of wine. Mahri then sensibly replaced her stilettos with flat pumps for driving.

When we arrived Jean was already there decked out in her fur coat and Kim, not to be left out, went to find her mother's magnificent white mink coat which whilst gorgeous, did look a trifle odd being worn indoors. To complete this picture of glamour, Kim dug out a 1980's ABBA style long blonde wig which, hilariously, everyone tried on and photos were taken (which may or may not be reproduced here, depending on whether the author deems them fit for publication). Actually, I thought I looked rather fetching.

If I had thought Jeanette's Christmas tree was large, it was nothing compared to Kim's which would not have been out of place in a large church or shopping arcade. Like Jeanette, her home was filled with more than enough decorations to stock a Christmas shop and the dining room table was laden with food, which was soon demolished by the gathered dozen or so women, to Cliff Richard singing Christmas songs in the background.

Then Jean declared it was time to play Pass the Bomb. Interestingly, this caused several of the gathered to collect their fur coats and slip off into the night. The rest of us refilled our glasses (again) and were taught the rules of Pass the Bomb. This required us to sit in circle and to the accompaniment of a ticking bomb make up words from letters printed on cards and then pass the bomb to the next person before it went off. Something like this:

Kim, holding the bomb: "I have rolled the dice and it says Tick, which means the letters cannot be used at the end of a word."

Jean uncovers the top card. It says "MEN".

Kim: "Er, er. Oh ... I can't think of anything..."

Jean: "Start the bomb!"

Kim, stalling for time: "Um ....um ..... yes!" She finally starts the bomb. It is ticking away.

Kim: "Mental." Phew. She passes the bomb to the next person.

Jeanette: "Menopause" ... bomb passes on ....

Rhoda: "Ahhhhhhhh .... cement"

Jean: "Tempermental."

Mahri: "Amen" ... passes bomb ....

All: "No, no, can't be at the END of the word." Bomb passes back to Mahri.

Mahri (confused): "Och, err, oh goodness, I canna think of anything." Loud alarm. The Bomb goes off!! Mahri loses the round and picks up the card.

Now you might think this sounds like a very easy game. You would be right, of course, but after many glasses of nectar, normally sharp minds dissolved into jelly. The Biggest Loser is the person left holding the most cards. After twelve rounds, Kim finished having blown herself up seven times. Ouch.

Finally, we nestled into our fur coats. Mahri, Cinderella-like, took off her party shoes and went back to her sensible pumps and we headed home sometime in the early morning. It's Quiz Night tomorrow so our tired brains need some sleep to ensure our Ladies team acquits itself admirably. I have offered to be on the team to answer all the Australian questions.

"But you didna know the answers to any of the Australian questions at the last quiz night," said Jeanette, reminding me that when asked about the number of players on an Aussie Rules team, I had been woefully ignorant.

Nothing wrong with her memory, I thought.

A WALK IN THE DARK

Continued from yesterday ....

Part Two. 4.00pm - midnight or thereabouts:

Walking back to the cottage after completing a bright red premmie baby hat at Clicking Needles, Jeanette invited me in for a cup of tea so we could discuss arrangements for my farewell tea party.

"Or would you like something stronger?" she asked.

I looked at my watch. Four o'clock. Jeanette waved a bottle of Cream of Edradour Whiskey at me.

"Just two wee glasses. We deserve it," she said. I capitulated, just to be polite of course.

We made a list of tea party guests and then began chatting about this and that. Jeanette topped up our glasses. We chatted about this and that a bit more. Jeanette peered at the whiskey bottle.

"It's not worth saving. Let's finish it off."

We chatted a bit more and drained our glasses. Then we heard the front door - Gordon was back from Inverness.

"Halloo!!" he said. "Would you like a drink? I think I'll have a glass of the Edradour to warm me up."

On discovering that the bottle was empty, which he took remarkedly well, he suggested we went to the pub for a drink. By now we were amazed to discover it was 7.15pm and Jeanette still had a chicken to roast for dinner.

"Let's go and have dinner as well!" said Gordon.

As we walked through the main street, Gordon asked if we had brought torches. No, we hadn't. Well he had, but he didn't really want to use it because it didn't have much battery life left. The reason for all this talk about torches soon became clear as we left the well lit village street and headed up the hill in absolute 100% pitch darkness, with no pavements on the roadside.

"Just walk along the white line in the middle of the road," said Gordon, who was obviously saving any battery power for the walk home. Quite what would happen if a car also wanted to share the road with us was not discussed. I supposed we would just dive for the bushes.

Being in the dark reminded Jeanette about an incident earlier in the week. We had gone in separate cars to Pitlochry so she could leave Gordon's car at the station carpark for him to collect when he returned from Glasgow. I waited while she pulled in, parked and put the car keys up the exhaust pipe for him.

Then she realised she had left her phone in his car, and went back to get it, which meant first retrieving the keys from the exhaust pipe.

"Oh no!" she wailed. "I've just pushed the keys further up the pipe."

I gave her a pen to hook them out but she only succeeded in pushing the keys further still up the pipe. She was looking at her filthy black hands in dismay.

"Oh never mind, Gordon will manage to get them out," she said, which was a somewhat cavalier attitude, I thought - especially as poor Gordon would be arriving home after dark.

"Anyway I expect the keys will just get blown out when he starts the car." Starts the car? What with?

Indeed with some difficulty Gordon had eventually managed to pull the keys out of the exhaust with a pen, but it took him some time. He then stopped at the supermarket to pick up a few things on the way home.

As he walked through the door, Jeanette had gasped and burst into giggles. He looked like the chimney sweep! Not only were his hands covered in black oil, but his face was filthy too.

"Goodness knows what they thought of you in the supermarket," she said, somewhat conveniently forgetting that Gordon's plight was in some measure caused by her good self.

After a meal and then an hour or so spent chatting to the locals over a few more drinks, it was time to weave our way back down the hill, again in total darkness so I am not sure why Gordon brought the torch. On the downhill, the white line was not nearly as visible. But perhaps that was the fault of the wine and liqueurs we had just imbibed.

As we came into the village we critiqued the array of Christmas lights wound around various trees and the decorations visible through cottage windows. We admired the two deer, brightly shining on our lawn, grazing in the flowerbed and decided to call them Rudolph and Bambi.

Rather sheepishly, Gordon told us that apparently Ronnie in the end cottage, who is an iron welder, was a bit taken aback when he saw the deer, as he has fashioned a deer which he plans to decorate with lights to put in his garden this Christmas. There will be quite a menagerie running around.

Finally, I collapsed through my front door, which is now adorned with my wreath:

SAND IN MY KNITTING

Yesterday should have been a peaceful day only interrupted by two hours at Clicking Needles, but it never quite turned out that way.

Part One. 10.30am - 3.30pm:

It was time for my friends Christine and Kathy to leave and drive back to Birmingham. We packed up the car, had big hugs and kisses and I stood by the roadside to wave them farewell. Christine hopped into the driver's seat and turned on the engine. Nothing. Just a clicketty-click.

Three helpless women stood and stared at the car. It was decided it wasn't a flat battery as all the dashboard lights were flashing. Christine then did something most women (apparently) are generally not known for - she reached for the instruction manual. Flashing lights meant a malfunctioning immobiliser. Which also meant Kathy and Christine were immobilised, too, especially as she was not a member of AA (Automobile Association, not Alcoholics Anonymous).

Bizarrely, the village has a vintage car restoration garage, so I popped in and found two men in blue overalls peering into the bonnet of a 1930s MG convertible. I explained our dilemma and they both trudged across to the immobile Mazda.

"Flat battery," said Mechanic #1

"No, it's apparently the immobiliser," said Christine. "But would you be able to take a look and see if you can fix it?"

"Och, no," said Mechanic #2. "We don't know anything about modern cars. We can only repair vintage cars."

And with that, they both trudged back from whence they came.

The next hour was spent talking to Mazda garages in Perth (they could not look at the car for four days), Dundee (they could maybe look tomorrow), Stirling (they could see it today if we could get it towed to them). We could locate no towing services nearer than Perth, which is about an hour away.

Finally, Christine joined the AA (and believe me, we all needed a drink by now). The AA could not promise to be there sooner than about two hours because of the terrible weather. Odd, because all the frost had dissipated and it was sunny but perhaps they always say that because chances are the weather will be terrible somewhere along the way.

While they checked train times and made back-up plans in the event the AA man could not fix the car, I decided to go to Clicking Needles.

I only had two premmie hats to hand in and one was partially knitted back to front because whilst making it I had been chatting to my friends instead of concentrating on the pattern, but hopefully the premmie baby won't mind.

"So, will ye start a knitting group when you get back home?" asked Petrina

"Well, it would be a great way to see friends more regularly. We could be the Sydney chapter of Clicking Needles," I said.

"Hmm," said Theresa. "I know those city types. They'll say 'I'll pencil it in' or 'I'll see if I can find a window'. Then they'll need to do some 'blue sky thinking'."

"I can just see you all knitting on Bondi Beach in your swimsuits," said Sylvia.

"Sand in my Knitting! That would be a good name for a book," said Karen.

Through the window I saw the AA truck arrive, and about half an hour later Kathy knocked on the door of the village hall to tell me the car was fixed, and they would shortly be on their way south.

"What was the problem?"

"Flat battery."

So vintage cars aren't so different to modern cars after all - but we did wonder why three Mazda garages had insisted the solution would need complicated computer reprogramming, when in fact a pair of sturdy jump leads would have done the job.

to be continued...

A CUT ABOVE

There are a number of hairdressers in Blairgowrie but having followed Jean's advice I booked into A Cut Above, having already discarded Curl Up 'N Dye on the basis that its name did not exactly engender any confidence in me or the state in which I might leave their establishment.

When I went in to make the booking, and explained that I only wanted a tint and that I had the colour formula the manageress immediately asked to see it so she could check she had all the dyes required to get me 'just right'. After some slightly unnerving scrabbling around under the Reception counter, she declared they were all in stock and that Margaret Ann could 'do me' at 11.00am on Friday.

A Cut Above is probably the smallest hair salon I have ever seen but it manages to squash in almost a dozen chairs and on both occasions when I visited, it was packed with local ladies being pruned, primed and permed which I took as a good sign. Although Jean has her hair cut here, and very nicely too, I decided I would not risk such an endeavour and anyway, as it's getting so cold here, I consider that I need all the hair possible on my head right now.

After Margaret Ann had slapped colour all over my roots, I was escorted into the main area of the salon and seated in front of a rather old-fashioned looking basin. I looked around and was a little perturbed to see quite a few blu-ish rinses and hoped they had got my formula right. There was also some heavy use of hair spray and one lady being styled into a 1950s bob with a flick curl all around the collar line - truly, I did not know anyone wore hair like that any more. Perhaps it's making a comeback and Blairgowrie is setting the trend.

For the next 30 minutes I tried to read my book, The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Bronte (silly title, her diaries are hardly secret once published for anyone to read, now are they?) but was distracted by the snippets of conversation going on around me.

"I think they've lifted a wee bit as time's gone on"

"We're going away until this side of January"

"He's got a wee display in the window"

"He thought he had swine flu but then he picked up"

"Is it falling down at the front? Hair seems to do that sometimes"

"I think this looks better than grey"

"He's not doing too well. He's had a double bypass"

"It's only once a year isn't it, thank goodness. It's all madness"

The apprentice came over and asked me, "Do you normally have a front or a back wash?"

"Sorry?" I said, almighty confused.

"Do you have a front or a back wash normally?" She asked again, this time nodding to the basin in front of me.

"Ah .... back wash," I said, though whether this was the right answer I'm not sure. I had to lean so far back I nearly slid off the chair.

Margaret Ann then insisted on blow-drying my hair, which as the temperature was registering -4.5 when I arrived was probably a good idea, and with relief I saw not one hint of blue in the final result. Although I don't know that the curly bits at the back are quite me, if you know what I mean.....

SUNDAY OUTING

Dawn very kindly invited me to her Christmas luncheon party which was a perfect social occasion to wear my mink coat. Not only was it also an exceptionally cold day, but I had a feeling Dawn would be most disappointed if I didn't show it off.

The lunch was held at one of the local hotels, and Dawn was at the door to welcome us. She was thrilled to see me in my mink coat and declared that she had also worn hers! Jeanette and I went to inspect it - a beautiful fur jacket that had been originally owned by Dawn's mother. Next to it was a large fur hand muff which Dawn's grand-daughter had brought. Then Jean arrived and she too was wearing her fur coat, which she had not worn for twenty years, but she said she knew I would wear mine so she decided to dust hers off. As suspected, the fur coat revival has begun. It won't be long now before all the village ladies are swanning around wrapped in fur and looking decidedly more exotic than they did last Christmas.

After supping wine around the enormous log fire, we sat down to lunch during which our hostess ensured everyone kept changing seats and mingling. To finish the party we sang several carols, unfortunately somewhat off key because the piano was in slight need of tuning. Although to be fair, it might have been the fellow who volunteered to accompany us whose piano-playing was slightly rusty.

Happily fed and watered, as we drove back down the hill, which was beginning to quite severely frost over, Gordon told the tale of a Christmas party when only he and one other had been able to get their cars up to the hotel due to the icy conditions. Everyone else had sensibly left their vehicles at the bottom and walked up.  At around midnight when they left the establishment, he saw the other man head for his car but he slipped, and proceeded to slide all the way down the hill on his backside. A cautionary tale and one I shall remember on New Year's Eve when we will be celebrating at this same hotel.

Earlier today I met a woman outside the village shop who was worried about walking home down her lane and slipping over because it was so icy. I offered to walk her back but she insisted whe would be fine and confided in me that when the ice gets really bad, she wears woollen socks over her gumboots. I think hearing these two stories on the same day must be an omen so next week I will prepare for Hogmanay by seeing if I have any woolly socks which will fit over my dancing shoes.

Talk last night in the pub apparently centred for hours on Jeanette and Gordon's trip last week to London, and from thence to Brussels, which they nearly didn't make because the night before they were due to leave for Europe, Jeanette realised she had left their passports at home. With great ingenuity, they telephoned Eric who had a spare key to their house. Eric found the passports, drove to Pitlochry railway station and handed them to the guard of the sleeper train which was travelling down from Inverness. Gordon met the train at Euston at 6.00am the next morning and the guard gave him their passports. I cannot imagine this happening anywhere else!

We chatted about the deer in the garden and the need to give them names. Gordon expressed a desire to buy some more - well, it makes an interesting alternative to garden gnomes, and they do look very charming, twinkling in the garden bed, turning their heads to and fro in a rather proprietorial fashion.

As we reached home, I told Jeanette and Gordon how I have been regularly watering the pretty flowering plant in my bedroom - that is, up until a few days ago, when I realised that the flowers were made of plastic. The really odd thing is that every time I poured a cupful of water into the plant's tray, it got soaked up into the flower pot - so it was an understandable mistake on my part, don't you think?

A TAP ON THE SHOULDER

The folk in Perth are friendly and helpful. I know this for a fact because last night I had two friends coming to visit who were driving from down south (ie England), and who experienced a chance, yet extremely fortuitous, encounter in Perth.

Christine and Kathy telephoned me from about 10 miles outside Perth and I advised them that they should reach me at about 6.00pm. By 6.30pm I was getting a teensy weensy bit anxious; by 6.45pm I was relieved to hear a knock on the door, and welcomed two women who were in fits of hysterical giggles, gabbling something about having been told the stone cottages in the Highlands were freezing cold, so they were amazed to be dragged into the warmth.

"Do we have a tale to tell you!" they chorused.

Once I had them settled with a glass of champagne in front of the log fire, I sat back to hear their story.

All had been progressing very well until they reached Perth and could see no signposts for Blairgowrie. They drove around in circles and eventually found themselves in a back street, not far from a supermarket. Kathy elected to go to the supermarket and find someone who could give her directions.

She spied a fellow leaving the store and went up and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Are you local?" she asked.

"I am noo (sic: now)," said this very Scottish sounding gentleman.

"Well, I'm hoping you can help me."

"That'll cost ye five poonds,"

"I'll pay anything," said Kathy, perhaps momentarily forgetting she was negotiating with a Scot.

"Then that'll be ten poonds."

Bartering complete, Kathy explained her plight, that she and her friend were lost and needed to know how to get to Blairgowrie.

"Oh, that's nay problem, the road you need is on our way home, so you just follow my wife and I."

Kathy said that might present a problem because they weren't actually parked in the supermarket carpark but were in a back lane nearby and she was sure they would never be able to navigate the streets back to the carpark.

"Och, not a problem. I'll jump in the car with your friend, and you can go with my wife, and we will meet up a few miles up the road."

Introductions were made and Alec went with Kathy to find Christine, whilst Morag went to put their groceries in the car.

"Chris! Chris!" Kathy yelled through the car window to Christine. "I've found a man for you!"

Hoots of laughter, and Christine is thinking to herself that Kathy is a pretty fast worker. After all, she only popped into the supermarket to find directions, not a new bloke. But Christine's laughter soon turned to slight concern when she realised that not only was this strange man she had never met before climbing into her car, but her friend Kathy was heading off into a second car.

Now far be it for me to be a damp squib, but I did point out that Christine and Kathy had just thrown out of the window all the advice drummed into the heads of their children over many years about (a) never talking to strangers and (b) never getting into cars with strangers - and had one of their offspring been telling this story they would have been alternately horrified and terrified. They had the grace to blush.

Kathy and Morag enjoyed a cosy woman to woman chat as they negotiated the Perth rush hour and out onto the road to Blairgowrie. Morag did express some concern for Christine because she said her husband Alec could "talk for Scotland". Christine later confirmed this indeed was the case, "and England, Wales and Ireland too."

As they walked to Christine's car at the appointed meeting spot, Kathy turned to Morag.

"Omigod, the windows are all steamed up!"

"Aye," said Alec, with a wink. "We stopped a few times on the way."

This of course, turned out to be a fantasy on Alec's part, but on the journey he had regaled Christine with many amusing stories about his life, and realising he had a foreigner as his audience, also enjoyed telling some tall stories - including the one about the lack of heating in stone cottages.

"But why do they call them botties?" asked Christine.

"No, Chris, it's BOTHYS!!!"

STRIP THE WILLOW

Armed with my carefully wrapped tin of biscuits, and wearing my mink coat, Jeanette and I set off for the Women's Rural Institute December meeting at the village hall. Twelve staunch ladies braved -2. I was pleased to see that my gift wrapping held its own, indeed one parcel was curiously wrapped in newspaper which had been gathered into a topnotch and trimmed to look akin to a pineapple. Other exotic wrappings included stylish use of holly, berries and mistletoe and elaborate ribbons and bows.

But the most exotic offering of all was me in my mink coat. Apparently I looked just like a Hollywood star! Although quite which one, no one was game to say. The interesting thing about wearing a mink coat is that everyone feels a need to come and stroke it. A bit like being pregnant when people suddenly feel it is perfectly appropriate to come up and pat one's stomach.

Jane was there to teach us the finer art of making Christmas wreaths - all from natural materials. First we each had to take a length of willow about two metres long. Via a series of maneouvres which made us look like Houdini extricating himself from one of his more devious escapades, we then learned how to bend the willow into a circular frame. Or in my case an egg-shape.

The next bit was the difficult part when one could choose to decorate the frame either with birch or larch twigs, or the slightly trickier grand fir leaves. I elected for the fir as it smells divinely Christmassy. The first four fir branches which I twisted into shape then mysteriously fell out of the willow frame so I started again. Finally I had a messy looking object for which I held out little hope. But with some judicious use of wire and by adding some baby pine cones, I began to think that maybe my Hallelujah moment was coming. Tomorrow I will buy some tartan ribbon to complete my very first wreath.

Once we had all had tea and mince pies, photos were taken:

Then it was time for the official proceedings which were mercifully short. The highlight was singing the Scottish Women's Rural Institute Song (1994) to the music of Holst's Jupiter. You may not immediately think you know this tune but it is one of those fervent rousing songs normally associated with completely different lyrics and sung at footballl matches. This version was specifically written to be sung at the end of WRI meetings, under the instruction "and not too slow". 

Meeting highlights:

1. The WRI made more than 80 pounds at last Saturday's fair from sales of cups of tea and mince pies. Marie was given a bottle of wine and a jar of sweets for working like a trojan throughout the day.

2. The Secret Santa Gift wrapped in newspaper won the competition!!!  Extraordinary. It was chosen for its environmentally-friendly choice of recycled materials.

3. The annual dinner is to take place on January 14th but I will have left by then. The ladies want to arrange a farewell party for me which will undoutedly be afternoon tea. I have to prepare a list of guests which is a political minefield and one I am terrified to walk through.

When Jeanette and I arrived back at our cottages, we had two new arrivals contentedly grazing in the garden which we then toasted with local Edradour whiskey.

We noticed that their heads move. No, seriously! It's not the whiskey talking, I promise.

DAY TRIP TO ABERFELDY

Jeanette invited me to accompany her on a trip to Aberfeldy, where she had to conduct some business. We decided to make a day of it and have lunch on the way. There was a hard frost this morning and driving through the glen was beautiful on such a sunny day, until we hit fog and thereafter could see nothing much at all:



Lunch was homemade mushroom soup at the Legends of Grand Tully, which also doubles as the most amazing chocolate shop called Highland Chocolatier which specialises in gourmet truffles and spiced pralines. The workmanship literally made the chocoloates look too good to eat and I was grateful that I do not have a sweet tooth, not least because such delights come at a high price.

As with many shops tucked into small hamlets and off side roads, this establishment had a huge array of locally made gifts. It also boasted a welcoming cafe decorated with witches on broomsticks (not real ones) and walls covered in clocks of all different shapes and sizes. I fell in love with a clock about half a metre in diameter decorated with pictures of playing cards - yes I know it sounds weird but it was actually very tasteful in French provincial style. We do not have a wall big enough for it, not would it fit into my already overladen suitcase, so with great reluctance I left it still mounted between a pendulum clock and a cuckoo clock.

Paul advised me that just outside Aberfeldy is the best wine merchant in the area. He reinforced on two or three occasions that I must remember to visit it, so I could not disappoint him. In fact, I decided I would choose an Australian wine as a thank you for all the games of golf he has shouted me at his club whilst I've been here. Despite being a very small wine merchant it was excellently well stocked with Australian wines and I found him what I hope will be a very nice Petaluma 2002 Chardonnay.

On my shopping list was wrapping paper and ribbon for Best Wrapped Secret Santa Gift. I also had it in mind to buy a different gift because the one I have already purchased is a round tin of biscuits which I think will be fearfully difficult to wrap in an elegant way. Not that I think I stand any chance of winning the prize against a village full of craft enthusiasts but I couldn't bear the look of dismay on the recipient's face when they see they have ended up with the Worst Wrapped Secret Santa Gift. In the end I decided on a square tin of biscuits and gave my parcel my best shot!


Before














 After

WILDLIFE CAPERS

While in the village shop the other day, I spotted Marie serving behind the counter.

"I've got a bone to pick with you." I said.

She looked a bit taken aback. "Oh yes?" she asked in a challenging yet polite way.

"We went all the way to find the boars and beavers in your secret location, and didn't see one at all."

"Oh the boars are all there. You just need to watch carefully and once your eyes get accustomed and you spot one, you'll see loads of them."

It sounded like one of those puzzle pictures that look like a mess of squiggles but when you pull it slowly back from your eyes you can (supposedly) see the real image. I can never do those, either. No matter how many times I try it, all I ever see are the squiggles. Despite my inability to see the wood for the trees, I can tell I must return to the boar pens and try and look beyond the mud, foliage and gloomy backdrop to see if I can catch the glint of a boar's eye.

"And as for the beavers," I said, "it turns out they are noctural."

Marie roared with laughter at this.

"Of course they are! I've never seen one. Do you think I go out there in the middle of the night waiting for them to appear?" Apparently the main point of going to the beavers' dam is to see how they make they homes and marvel at their superior carpentry abilities.

Coincidently, this weekend's Sunday Observer had a long article about beavers being re-introduced, in a controlled way, to a specific designated area of Scotland (which did not appear to be where we went, but perhaps this was deliberate obfuscation). Beavers have not been seen in Britain for 400 years but nevertheless whilst there are those who support their re-introduction, there are plenty who protest the experiment. As a beaver can fell a 10-inch wide tree in an hour, and a family of beavers can bring down 300 trees a year, one can see why. Others say beavers are vital to the creation of wetlands. With all this controversy I can see why the beaver trial areas must remain secret. I will give the article to Marie for her comments.

The other animal issue which is high on the priority list is the demise of the American grey squirrel, in order that the red squirrel which is native to the Britain, is not wiped out. These two types of squirrel do not happily co-habit and at the moment the grey squirrel is winning the territorial rights. Spotting a red squirrel is a memorable event and I have been lucky to see one in the cottage garden and another on the golf course. There is a Save the Red Squirrel campaign and in the minutes of the latest council meeting we are all exhorted to report to the authorities any sightings of grey squirrels so they can be summarily dealt with. More information and cute red squirrel photos: http://www.scottishsquirrelsurvey.co.uk/

Deer are a local driving hazard, but for those used to kangaroos leaping out of the bush in front of their cars at twilight, perhaps not quite as daunting as they might be. The other evening three baby deer suddenly shot out of the trees and cavorted across the road in front of my car. Although two fled into the undergrowth, the third was caught in my car headlights and ran ahead of my car for about a kilometre. Oh, for a camera.

Pheasants can be a trifle concerning and unexpected. They play around in the middle of the road, oblivious to the passing cars. Whilst I know one should not swerve to avoid them and risk a collison with oncoming vehicles, they are such superior looking birds that one's instinct is to preserve them - even if it is probably only a short-lived reprieve before they end up being served up as traditional Christmas fare.

KNITTING YARNS

My knitting has been coming on a treat and much as I would like to show off the fruits of my endeavours, unfortunately this might give the game away to certain family members regarding their Christmas presents. However, I can show you some of my latest premmie baby hats. Please take especial note of the four different styles and the delicate fair isle pattern work:



Last week I made a beret for an unnamed family member which the Clicking Needles ladies wanted to see, because for the last few weeks I had been fretting over finding a suitable pattern. I had finally found a solution but I needed second opinions on the finished article. On the whole comments were favourable, but Karen did ask whether I had 'blocked' it? Of course I hadn't because not only had I never heard of blocking, I didn't have a clue what it was. She explained that to shape my beret I needed to put a dinner plate inside it and then cover it with a damp tea towel. Seriously, I do sometimes wonder if I am having my legged pulled.

It seemed no one else had heard of blocking either so Petrina's mum went to find a dinner plate so we could do a dry run, so to speak. It transpired that either the plate was too small or my beret is too big, so I brought it back to cottage and it is now wrapped around a large dinner plate, snug in its damp cloth. Once it is blocked it will apparently be a perfect beret. If, however, the wet tea towel doesn't cause it to shrink, it might actually turn out to be a tam o'shanter, a Scottish beret which I found variously described on the internet as "a fabulous fusion between tradition and fashion" and " the perfect accessory for the comic golfer or Scottish clown". I shall pray for the former outcome.

Chatter turned to the issue of the annual Drama Competition. Karen, it transpires, only joined the Rural Women's Institute for the drama component and so like me she was disappointed to find few fellow thespian enthusiasts, even though last year she wrote a play around the competition's theme "a fashion show" and managed to drum up a cast of players who had to carefully manage referring to themselves as wumblegorzits - or was it gorzelwombits? - without mangling their lines. Anyway, it was a sensation.

Next year's competition will be a radio play which I harbour a deep longing to get involved with, perhaps Karen and I can collaborate. I think we could put together a nice little comedy of manners, complete with a stray Australian for slapstick moments, called "Knitting Yarns".

Tea was served with two plates of jam tarts, which Sylvia mistakenly identified as mince pies. They had been baked by the Brownies. Everyone was saying how delicious they were, but as I bit into mine, expecting light, flaky pastry to crumble onto my knitting, my teeth met with something the consistency of hardboard which I could barely chew through. In future, I shall be careful to avoid tarts made with gluten-free pastry by trainee Girl Guides.

Sometime shortly before the group broke up, we thought to comment on the young man who had been sitting at a computer throughout the afternoon. He was introduced to us all, and we were told he was there because of the broadband. Naturally enough, everyone assumed he was an IT technician. Not so, he is a final year law student from the next village which does not as yet have access to broadband (quelle horreur!), trying to finish his dissertation. He will be working from the hall every Monday, poor boy, trying to concentrate against the backdrop of our gossip and laughter. I don't know how he will fare with his degree, but he will certainly have gained a working knowledge of the finer art of knitting, which I think will make him a highly desirable batchelor in this neck of the woods.

COATS, CAROLS & CAKE

At the village fair, one of the first people I bumped into was Dawn. In her mid-eighties, she is brimming over with energy and joie de vivre. Last week, I invited her round for a cup of coffee and as we sat in my living room, I pointed out my extraordinary floral display which dominates the window. She thought it was pretty fantastic, and very realistic looking for fake flowers. Her roars of laughter on finding out they were real could be heard all down the glen.

So I thought Dawn would like to hear about my mink coat purchase. She was amazed and delighted, if  somewhat taken aback at such whimsical behaviour, and we began discussing wearing our minks on Christmas Day as she has a fine example tucked in her wardrobe which she'd like an excuse to brush off. She then spied some friends and insisted I join them for a cup of tea, and tell them all about my mink coat purchase, which I really think she was more excited about than I was.

Amongst much hilarity concerning its usefulness in Australia and how I could sell it for a huge profit on ebay, I think I have may have started a mink coat revival. Jackie said although she loved fur coats she didn't really approve of them but her mother reminded her that minks are terrible pests and apparently do a lot of damage. I have promised to wear my coat to the Rural Women's Institute meeting this week - I think that means I will be better wrapped up than the present I must bring for the Best Wrapped Secret Santa Gift competition.

We chatted about the various carol services that are planned. The main one takes place in a neighbouring village the weekend before Christmas and will serve mince pies and Christmas pudding (the catering arrangements seemed to be more important than the Order of Service). The village shop is having carols and a barbecue, which sounds to me suspiciously as if we will be expected to congregate outside, rather than inside, the store. I kept quiet about Gordon's plans for my debut guitar accompaniment. I have been too busy to practice my chords so I expect I'll be kicked off the orchestra anyway. I tried to delve further into the mystery of whether or not the local church will have a service on Christmas Day. As far as I could gather even if there is a service, no one will bother to attend because the current fire and brimstone vicar will make it very dreary. As Lavender said, you only want to go on Christmas Day if the church is full, it's fun and there are lots of children running around.

The fair was well attended. Just about everyone I have met in the village was there, either buying or selling. My purchases comprised:

1. Two beeswax candles from Aussie Jenny, who is married to the beekeeper
2. One bar of handmade tea tree, peppermint and patchouli soap from the lady who runs the local pottery
3. A black and white line drawing of my cottage by Paul's wife, Teresa
4. A thingummigig to hang in the garden to attract birds. It came with an apple skewered across the middle which I took out on the basis that the quarantine inspectors might have apoplexy:



5. A cup of tea and my first mince pie of the season, made by Jean. Delicious. The ladies running the tea and cake stall were so busy we did our own washing up.

When I got home I realised I had not bought anything for the Secret Santa Gift, but then it wouldn't be much of a secret, I suppose, to buy it from the village fair; and a bit embarrassing if whoever got my present had actually made the item inside. A high probability!

A FRIVOLOUS PURCHASE

Every time there is a relief postie on the beat, my newspaper is delivered to next door. This is an understandable mistake as both cottages have the same name. If my neighbours are away it means a trip to Bridge of Cally to collect a replacement paper. Today was one such day.

Deciding I could do the 30 minute round trip before lunch, I set off. I also needed to withdraw some cash as tomorrow is the village fair and I plan to clean up big time and do some Christmas shopping. Heave ho, the ATM at the Post Office didn't like my overseas card so, as I was halfway there I decided to travel on to Blairgowrie, quickly grab some cash and then pick up some wool from the woolshop.

The ladies in the wool shop have become accustomed to me now and on seeing me cross the portal, immediately offer their services, I expect wondering what silly question I will ask this time. Today, when advised that moss stitch was the best for my purposes, I had to admit ignorance yet again and request: "Please explain". Which the store assistant did, painstakingly and slowly, as if to the idiot child.

But girls, you know how it is, once you're out shopping only visiting one shop seems a bit of a wasted opportunity. Especially when you're about half an hour's drive from home and by the time you get back it will be too late for lunch and time for afternoon tea instead.

Warning: the next part of this post contains themes unsuitable for vegetarians or anyone who eschews items made from animal products.

Next door to the wool shop is a boutique called Frivols which sells antique clothing and jewellery - perhaps better described as good condition cast-offs their owners don't want any more. I popped in because I'd heard it often had some great bargains, such as brand new Jimmy Choo handbags at half price.

I am now the proud owner of a beautiful mink coat. I'm not quite sure how practical it is for Australia but this was the bargain of the century - a snip at 190 pounds ($350), in fantastic condition and a perfect fit. I asked what it would have sold for when new. "About eight thousand pounds," I was told. Hah!

It didn't take me too long to decide to buy, although I did (a) toss up whether it was worth the risk of having rotten eggs thrown at me by animal activists and (b) ponder whether my suitcase would handle the additional bulk and kilos. "Wear it on the plane!" the shop manager said.

Besides, I figure I can always sell it back to the shop before I leave. Fur coats are all the rage on the catwalks of New York and Paris this year, so with any luck my investment will have appreciated in value. In the meantime, I can approach below freezing temperatures knowing I will be warm and snug.

I just wonder how easy it is to swing a golf club in one of these:

WINE & CHEESE

The village shop is owned and run by the local community, so if it doesn't succeed as a going concern, inevitably it will not survive. Everyone is exhorted to 'use it or lose it' - and that means taking every available opportunity to prefer its facilities over those in the nearest town - be that the postal services, ATM machine, cafe (eat in or takeaway), gifts, general groceries, meat, bakery, wine and spirits. The prices are surprisingly competitive and often I have found daily necessities where Tesco has failed me, so it is no hardship to shop locally. Especially as there is always someone there to pass the time of day with, or sit and enjoy a cup of tea.

An energised group of women is working hard to market the shop wherever and whenever possible to ensure its success. This Christmas these volunteer helpers have made up fabulous Christmas hampers and sent numerous flyers out advising of the gourmet delicacies, local birds for roasting, and even Christmas trees "all sizes" that can be ordered through the shop over the festive period.

Over the past two weeks more flyers arrived in my newspaper, by email, in a hand-addressed envelope and thrust into my shopping, with an invitation to attend last night's wine and cheese evening which was organised as a way of sampling just some of the treats that the shop can pre-order for Christmas.

Strolling down to the party with Elaine and Ronnie, my neighbours, Elaine and I discussed writer's block. Elaine thinks writing poetry is much easier than writing a novel because it needs fewer words, and she just bins her screwed-up rejects and starts again. I disagreed with her - I suggested fewer words is harder to write than more words. As my novel has far fewer words than it should have by now, I think my argument wins.

When we arrived at the shop it was already packed with locals, most of whom I had never met before but by the end of the evening I had shaken many more new hands. I chatted with Andrew, a welder from Forfar who works on oil rigs and had just returned from weeks spent solely in the company of ten men with no alcohol on board, and who consequently found our village party rather overwhelming. I listened to a woman who did not draw breath for thirty minutes whilst she regaled me with her family's life history; sampled the wines Gilmore had selected for the evening's tasting from Chile, France, South Africa and Australia; and caught up with several new friends and - by now - familiar faces.

Ronnie didn't much like the Chilean Sauvignon Blanc, thought it was too young and anyway, he's a beer man. Paul favoured the pink sparkling but after a game of golf he prefers a dash of rum in hot coffee. Elaine confessed she likes to add lemonade to her wine. Jean said she always drinks Australian wine but whenever she opens a bottle for herself, her husband likes to partake of a glass or three. Andrew was enjoying the novelty of drinking from a glass rather than a paper cup - health and safety regulations on oil rigs having reached the heights of paranoia.

Mahri, Jan and Sally pressed through the crowded shop with plates laden with some of the local produce that they are taking orders for - smoked beef, game terrine, venison, Scottish brie, local cheddars - and were pleased with the positive response they got, as well as the numbers who had turned out to support the evening. Free booze and food will do it every time!

When I got home and was toasting my toes by the log fire, I reflected on how life-enhancing it is to be transported from one world into an entirely different one. I have been here more than five weeks and am loving every minute of it, especially the new perspective that such a change can give one's life. Even as I stare out of the window this morning across the gloomy garden at the driving rain, bemoaning that later I will have to trudge through the wet to the village fair, my enthusiasm is not in the least dampened. 

Which is more than can be said for the coal and wood which I now have to go and bring in!