The reputation of Scotland’s landowners took another hefty blow in the solar plexus in the seven days since I made the case for legislation to protect the red fox from the worst excesses of what passes for land management, after a protest outside the Scottish Parliament about abuse of foxhunting legislation.
A whale washes up dead on an Angus beach and makes big headlines. A mass stranding of whales on an Australian beach makes national television bulletins over here, 10,000 miles away.
A hint of grotesque distortion has crept into the never-ending procession of spleen-venting malcontents who increasingly characterise the owners and managers of Scotland’s estates and farms.
I am a newcomer to the eagle glen. My 40 years acquaintance with the place is only a few more years than the lifespan of a single golden eagle, assuming it is given the opportunity to die quietly of old age.
Did you notice that last Friday, December 1, the day you hung up your advent calendar (because nothing says Christmas like chocolate coins), and the first day of meteorological winter, it got milder?
The Crumleys, like the Marras, were a Lochee tribe. It’s just possible that Michael and I threw snowballs at each other when some lads from St Mary’s primary (the Mary’s) came up the hill to Ancrum Road primary (the Anky) to mix it up a bit whenever winter obliged with a decent snowfall.
I have been thinking about the Scottish football team because, well, hasn’t everybody?
Sooner or later, as September drifts towards October, and autumn drifts towards its prime, I incline towards the idea that I have an appointment to keep.
Sometimes I think the only people who truly understand the human condition are the great songwriters.
I have been watching a lot of kingfishers. No, that’s wrong. I have been watching kingfishers a lot, usually the same ones.