A certain gentle mockery used to come my way from within the ranks of the Crumley tribe for using the word “record” when I meant a CD.
When the history of nature conservation in Scotland comes to be written, the date of Thursday November 24 2016 will have a chapter all to itself.
Sometimes I worry about our near neighbours to the south of Carter Bar. Relax, this is not about the election, although you could be forgiven for thinking so from that first sentence.
Back in March I posed two questions in this corner of The Courier.
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.
One of the most telling symptoms of the crass stupidity that underpins the very idea of Britain leaving the European Union has probably escaped your notice.
I was persuaded a few years ago by some less than exhaustive research that my particular branch of the Crumley tribe was thriving in a wee village in Donegal around 1790.
Poppies and whitethroats, sea sounds and eider sounds, two sea eagles – one low over the Tentsmuir pines and the other climbing a blue spiral on a warm day, a dozen dolphins pounding the waves off Crail.
One of my favourite poets is Norman MacCaig. One of my favourite Norman MacCaig poems is Landscape and I. It begins:
I once met a red fox at 4,000ft on the Cairngorms plateau. We rather surprised each other.