"Why should I hate the Scottish climate?
Some of my best times have been in shitty weather.
AHOY THERE! Embrace the haar within you!"
Fergus More
When I was little a great monster terrified me by moaning outside my window.
"BAAAAWAAAA OOOOM, it moaned, BAAAAWAAAA OOOOM."
I leapt up screaming, ran to my parents room and crawled in between their warm bulk.
"What's wrong son?" asked my father. "What's wrong?"
"There's a monster outside my window."
"Dinnae be daft. It's only the fog horn. The haars come in."
That morning my father took me by the hand to the top of the braes overlooking Kinghorn beach. The mist had lifted a bit and the tide was far out. And lo! Sitting on top of the Hummel rock was the pilot cutter, high and dry like Noah's Ark.
It was on a very wet and misty day I came closer to a herd of red deer than I'd ever been before. Climbing out of Corrie Fee in Glen Doll, I headed towards Finalty Hill, which over looks the great corrie of Cean Lochan. The map suggested there was a stalkers hut there and I thought I'd have a look and see if it was still there.
The wind was in my face and the mist thick with driving rain. It was not a pleasant day to be wandering about on a high, featureless plateau. I could see very little with my hood up and my head down, walking on a bearing. Suddenly I realized some thing had changed so I stopped and looked around. I was surrounded by a forest of antlers. I must have let out an involuntary gasp of surprise for the stags suddenly leapt up and fled into the clouds. The senses of red deer are usually acute but with the wind in their face they'd neither smelt or heard me.
Some nights on the River Tay were wonderful, working by moonlight under the starry heavens. The only disturbance to the peace was the steady tonk, tonk, tonk, of the salmon cobbles single cylinder engine. Other nights were as black as pitch with the rain hissing on the racing river. Haar was the devil, for you could hardly see the other end of the boat and only the faint glow of a cigarette indicated human presence. The gaffer fiddled with the Tilley lamp which flashed into a brilliant light and blinded us all. He leaned out over the bow, holding the lamp up like the hero in some Victorian melodrama, looking for our mark. We weren't actually lost, just didn't know where we were.
Coming to the end of my schooldays I had a romantic notion that commercial salmon fishing on the Tay would be a good summer job before I went to art college. It was and it wasn't. I hadn't really considered that I'd be out day and night irrespective of the weather; work five hour shifts twice every twenty four hours; live in a bothy with five other strangers; sleep, when you could sleep, on a lumpy straw palliasse; cook your own food and generally fend for yourself. All this aside, I grew to enjoy the work.
I was standing at the tiller of the cobble bringing the net into the winch. I couldn't see the shore for it was the calm, grey light of early morning and the haar was thick. At night you aimed for the distant glow of the Tilley lamp but in mist you had to watch the net corks flying off the back of the boat. The center cork was bigger and was the signal to turn and make a run into the beach. You had to use all your animal senses and judge the course by watching the direction of the wind and waves. Suddenly the mist began to swirl violently and rather alarmingly round the boat. I hadn't the faintest idea what was going on but some instinct told me to look upwards. I could see the little disc of the sun, far, far away, looking down a long vaporous tunnel at me. The mist swirled and twisted upwards, flashing red and golden. I was looking up the eye of a twister, but one that was entirely benign. In a few seconds the mist was sucked up, vaporized and gone. The sun beat down. None of my workmates commentated on this strange phenomenon, because they hadn't seen it. I'd been at the right place at the right time and it seemed like Nature had put on this wonderful demonstration just for me.
I was sitting on the summit of Ben Lawers with a couple of palls, quietly chatting and eating our pieces. It was a mild summers day with light wind but a thick, lugubrious mist blanketed us and hid the view. To our surprise out of the murk appeared a group of teen age school children. The first to the top was a girl, who was muttering to herself,
"Aw this fuckin way and nae view. A dinnae believe it! Nae fuckin view".
She paced around in an agitated manner then standing at the edge of the swirling void on the highest point in Perth Shire bellowed out,
"BIG FUCKIN WOW! BIG FUCKIN WOW!
On Ben Vrackie
Two white haired ladies,
Natter, natter, natter,
in the mist
Of children in Australia.
