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.
A quiet Saturday afternoon at the beginning of summer.
The temporary resurrection of the Royal Arch (that’s the actual arch as opposed to the pub in Broughty Ferry) was an ingenious wheeze, albeit one that smacked ever so slightly of the sins of the great-grandfathers being visited on the great-grandsons and great-grand daughters.
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.
The collective genius of Perth and Kinross Council, the National Trust for Scotland and the Forestry Commission is stroking its collective chin.
Your starter for ten, no conferring. Who wrote the following words, and to whom and what was he referring?
What do you think about omens? Perhaps you don’t think about them at all, of course, in which case, what follows may leave you scratching your head.
It comes around almost as regularly as leap years.
I have been watching a lot of kingfishers. No, that’s wrong. I have been watching kingfishers a lot, usually the same ones.
The chances are that you have never heard of Margiad Evans.