Auld Lang Syne

This has been a week of farewells: my last Clicking Needles; my Haste ye Back party number 2; golf in a bitter wind; drinks in the pub; and a cosy cup of tea after a Highland hike.

At Clicking Needles we calculated how many teddy bears we have made and reckon we are well over 70 and our target of 100 will easily be reached. I've knitted seven, adding Yogi and Pooh to Rupert, Winnie, Paddington, Edward & Mrs Simpson. It was a wrench to hand them over – I have become very used to seeing them sitting in my armchair by the fire - and absolutely fatal to bond when one knows they will soon be off to their new families in Africa. But I braved it out, and thrust them in a large bag together with their many brothers and sisters. I also left a half-knitted teddy with Sylvia to stuff and sew on his face. I generously suggested she could christen him for me.

However it was when Jeanette heard me talking about the ducks in the garden, that I received my reality check.

“We have two ducks that come into our garden every day,” I said.

“They spend about two hours outside my window and then they trot up the path and spend another couple of hours outside Elaine and Ronnie's. Then sometimes they come back outside my cottage again.”

Jeanette gave me a piercing look.

“I really think it’s time you went home to Australia,” she said, worried that my brain is starting to melt to jelly.

All my favourite people came to my afternoon tea and as custom dictates, Jeanette’s table was laden with homemade cakes, sandwiches and pastries, with everyone’s contribution recognised on the beautifully framed menu card.  

(I can't show a picture with everyone sitting at the table because Rhoda complained that she looked like a pink blancmange, so you will just have to use your imagination)

Over tea, champagne and calories we reminisced about some of the things that have happened in the last few months.

Petrina’s son, who is a journalist on a local paper, needed some ideas for articles.

“Why don’t you write about the budgie that flew into the chip pan?” his grandmother suggested.

“Or you could tell your readers about the man who had a stroke and called for an ambulance. The nurse got lost and had to call for directions and then she drove her car off the road and got stuck in a snowdrift. She had to get the stroke victim to come and help pull her car out.”

We don’t know whether he survived.

Gordon, meanwhile, has been in London helping renovate his daughter’s flat. She bought a pre-loved sofa but it needed a new foam seat and cushions which had to be custom-made. Gordon went on the tube to collect them. It was 5 o’clock, and rush hour, as he manhandled the six-foot long foam base and cushions down the escalators and onto the tube squeezing in amongst the upstanding commuters. He was somewhat bemused when people began handing him money, assuming him to be a homeless person carrying his bed on his back.

Dawn is fearful that almost three months isolated in her log cabin at the top of the glen has stymied a habit of a lifetime: being a shoe-aholic.

“I think I’ve got agrophobia,” she announced.

“I went to Perth to get my hair done, and do you know? I didn’t want to go shopping! Not even to the shoe shop! Not one pair! I just wanted to get home.”

Eric told me of an old lady, 91, who decided to it was time to give up driving.

“ I ask’d her, had she lost her confidence? Och nay, she said, there’s just too many idiot drivers nowadays.”

Paul and I ventured back to Arbroath (via Forfar to pick up two bridies, a local pastie) for a final, and very chilly, game of golf. On the way home we detoured via Carnoustie, where the women’s British Open will be held. On the way, we passed a charming looking course, with a quaint clubhouse.

“They won’t let you play there unless you first sign into the clubhouse wearing a collar, tie and jacket before changing into your golf gear,” said Paul.

“Oh goodness!” I gasped. “And what about the women? What’s the dress code for women?”

“Women! Oh no, there’s no women allowed.”

Emancipation hasn’t quite reached some parts of Scotland yet.

My last day dawned was fine and sunny. Jeanette asked what I would like to do.

“I’d like to take you for afternoon tea somewhere scenic,” I said.

After some thought, Jeanette said we would drive to Dunkeld and walk from the village to the Hilton, which is set in extensive grounds and overlooks the River Tay, for our tea. She told me it was a lovely walk with pretty views from the hotel. She packed a backpack and I laced on my walking shoes.

On the way we detoured to Birnam, famous for Beatrix Potter, which necessitated a visit to the Arts Centre and a meander around the shop, where we bought a few bits and pieces.

On to Dunkeld and as we drove down the main street, Jeanette pointed out a few shops she liked. We parked and set off for our hike up to the Hilton. As we reached the first dress shop, Jeanette peered through the door, turned to me and asked, “Shall we just pop in for a look?”. It seemed a shame not to take a glance and about fifteen minutes later, we headed back out into the street.

Next door was another charming craft shop. Jeanette put her hand to the door and again asked, “Shall we take a look?”.

By the time we had explored all the shops that Dunkeld had on offer, and made a few purchases, darkness was starting to fall. We drove to the Hilton, had a cuppa and a cupcake, strolled in the fading light to look quickly at the River Tay before heading back home.

My kind of walk, really, when the best laid plans take on a life of their own, because there will always be a next time.

Jo and Pete agreed to open the pub midweek so we could have farewell drinks. The log fire was blazing and quite a few people headed down to the village hostelry for a wee dram and a blether. Some of my not-now-quite-so-new friends I was even able to introduce to each other.

Charlie commented on how the pub interior had changed.

“When was the last time you were here?” I asked.

“Oh, about ten years ago,” he said. I am resolved to keep having arriving and departing parties, if only to ensure the pub gets more business, and the natives get out more at night to meet with their neighbours.

Val gave me a card with a picture of a semi-naked Scotsman, dressed only in a kilt, looking out across a loch to some castle ruins. She wrote “a wee reminder of what you’ll be missing.” I assume she means the stunning scenery because the only six packs around here are of the beer variety.

I sent a text message to Eric, to remind him to come for a drink, despite Jeanette’s scepticism about his ability to manage sms-ing. As I had texted him a few weeks earlier when in the jaws of a domestic crisis, I felt sure he must by now have mastered the technology. When he arrived, I asked him if he had received my message.

“Oh aye,” he said proudly. “I was sitting eating my tea, when my pocket beeped.”

“I hope your wife isn’t getting suspicious, what with you getting all these messages from me.” Eric roared with laughter, and I shouted him a Famous Grouse.

Elaine wrote a poem for me, a reminder of the distance which both divides and links us:

HASTE YEA BACK

Sarah, don’t forget us, as you fly away home

Keep us in your heart forever, no matter where you roam

Socialising, at a barbeque, or lazing on some beach

Remember friends in Scotland, still shivering for weeks

We hope that you enjoyed every moment spent right here

A white and snowy Christmas, or a fun-packed bright New Year

So never be a stranger, come back, visit once again

There’s a welcome in Kirkmichael, from us folks in the glen.