
OUT WALKING in May, I met a man who passed on to me a prediction that the temperature in Scotland on August twelfth would be hotter than the hottest day recorded in England last year. That was a temperature of 103 degrees at Heathrow Airport.
“KLOCK, KLOCK”, a cock pheasant was brazenly standing on the old wall outside the kitchen window, calling on the world at large to acknowledge that he was king of the castle. It’s taken up post there for several days and is obviously staking a territorial claim to that part of the garden.
ALTHOUGH IT’S been open to traffic for several weeks, I’ve only just driven for the first time over the new bridge connecting Montrose to Rossie Island. I grew up with the old one, and for such a long time it was a timeless feature of my life. I don’t miss it. Its useful, working life was over – nothing gained in always looking back.
MORRIS DANCERS, with their straw hats and colourful ribbons and bells, dancing their hearts out in the middle of Montrose High Street, would always seem a bit out of context. But seeing them there at the end of October, waving their hankies and whacking away at each other with their sticks, stopped me in my tracks.