Sam Wilding and Kate Humble

Kate Humble and Sam Wilding
Yes, it was a long drive south to listen to vets and country folk enthuse over a new cure for sheep, but there was a fun night and a chance encounter. Carden Park is in the beautiful Chester countryside where, not far away, Kate Humble was filming ‘Lambing Live’. Manged a quick chat and a look at some of the local sheep. Baaaa! Spent much of the day signing books and chasing editors. Book 3 of the Denthan series is in its final throes. The sad thing was, I missed my Emma’s birthday, so I organised a trip in a hot air balloon for her.

Going Home

Hardly on the same level, but I now know how Palin feels when a ferry doesn't turn up or a plane is missed. My plans are foiled and I will have to travel home via Uig and Eilean Donan castle. After the full Monty at the Polochar Inn, I say my goodbyes and head north to Lochmaddy. I pass Whooper Swans upturned in still, frozen lochens. Some of them look as if they've been frozen in the act of tipping; their bums jutting from the surface like fluffy icebergs. It's like a summer's day at Lochmaddy. The sea is like glass and I wander round the ferry terminal making sure that I have at least some of my descriptions right in the book I'm working on. I decide to keep my imaginary bus stop in place rather than plump for reality.

On the ferry, I sunbathe on deck as we pull out of the harbour. It's so nice that I wonder about sun tan lotion etc. A foriegn couple have a good laugh at my expense as I try, in vain, to balance my thin camera on my bag and push the timer at the same time. They eventually show some mercy, stepping in to take my pic. I write a few chapters on the smooth crossing and wiz off the boat at Uig. Between Uig and Portree I catch a glimpse of some really massive wind turbines on the horizon. This is why I'm writing the new book. It's a stark reminder of the duality, the conflict, the good and the bad. They cut an ugly swathe on the mountain-top but, on the other hand, there's something imposing and majestic in the way they move.

Moving down the west coast via Fort William and Glen Coe, I eventually chat to my old-time bass player Jim as I journey down the side of Loch Lomond. Home is only a few miles away now. I've missed the family, Betsy and all.

A Sign of the Times

Uist is an idyllic place but I found out that it is, sadly, no different from the rest of the world in many respects. It has wonderful beaches, a thriving community but, alas, some problems with the odd drug user and there has certainly been the occasional barney between neighbours and even kin. Houses lie empty, 'in dispute'. No one knows for certain who owns them. Surely this is all normal. Where there is human activity there is sure to be human failings. I guess that's where religion and telly come into play. Moral doctrine and escapism seem to go hand in hand here. Anyway... The Western Isles are still a million times more peaceful and beautiful than most places I've been to in my life. It's so nice that I even consider becoming an 'incomer' and look more closely at a few of the empty houses. Everyone I've met: at the libraries, schools and hotels have, without exception, been interesting and extremely friendly.

On a walk along the beach I see a man spreading heaps of seaweed over the grass behind the dunes. I ask him what he is doing. He explains that the seaweed, shoveled out in 20ft x 80ft patches, melts into the soil. After 2 months, or so, they rotovate the area and plant potatoes. A very old practice, I'm told. I am also given the 'ins and outs' of cutting peat. Nowadays, they tend to cut it on a slope, up a hill etc to avoid flooding. They store it, stacked in a breezy spot, so that it can dry into black, brittle blocks; the best for burning.

After my 5th walk along the beach and back, I settle down to an excellent anti-pasta salad, followed by a plate of humongous scallops and Stornoway back pudding. I give in to the cook, Ian's, pudding list and submit to his homemade cheese cake and lemon ice-cream. Gosh, I really need to get back to more edits and more writing. On Uist, it's too easy to relax. Bad news, however, spoils my coffee. There's no space on the Uist to Oban ferry. An M.P. has passed away and the funeral takes precedence. Fair enough. There are more important things... This means that I will have to go back home the long way, via Skye. Oh, well, never mind. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.