Scotland: National Rural Network
Connecting Rural Scotland - Promoting Rural Growth

By Patrick Vickery

Isle of Skye Beer could possibly be relabelled "end up flat on your back in a bush at someone's party up the road if you inadvertently drink too much of it" sort of thing, although I guess that wouldn't fit on the label. Yes, a good beer, that, heartily recommended, and to be drunk in the company of others just in case you require assistance to emerge vertically from the bush that you've just fallen into.

On such occasions it is preferable if there is no one about to see you lose your vertical status in the first place, of course, but in my case a bevy of sober young folks were close by to offer a helping hand. I did offer to buy a new shrub to replace the flattened version but they decided to await its resurrection the following year. Good idea. Shrubs are hardy things.

Anyway, I was going to mention the Loopallu music festival in Ullapool that happened last month. In the days preceding the festival the weather was inclement, so on the Thursday morning rather than tackle a soggy Portmahomack hedge in need of a good prune I hitched the caravan to the car and motored up to Ullapool.
The plan was to leave the caravan in Ullapool on the Thursday to ensure that no time was wasted on domestic ‘stuff' when we arrived the following evening. There would be people to meet, music to enjoy and festival pursuits to pursue, you see, with no time for flaffing about with chemical ‘facilities', electrical hook-ups and caravan technicalities.

Now Broomfield Campsite is a beautiful spot. The jolly lady at Reception cut short her phone call with a "I can't talk now, I'm in the midst of a music festival, phone me later" to whoever she was talking to (I was the only evidence of a musical festival goer at the time so I was suitably flattered) and instructed me to follow a jovial man on a scooter who led me jovially to a spot beside the shore to park the caravan. And that was that.

The Music Festival (me) moved swiftly to the Chip Shop opposite the Ullapool Book Shop for a battered sausage and a chat with the Chip Shop girl about the merits of the previous two festivals, and the performance of the Stranglers in particular. They, too, had taken battered sausage, she told me, and unlike their stage act had managed to keep their T-shirts on for the entire duration of their meal. Who else had taken battered sausage from this famous chip shop, I wonder? Franz Ferdinand, the Vatersay Boys, the Undertones . . . ? Oh, the mind boggles.

My tasty sausage consumed, I headed for home, making a brief stop in Dingwall at the 24 hour superstore that's not open for 24 hours to stock up on provisions for the weekend as well as having a chat with a cheery ‘check out' teenager' about the joys of music festivals and how it mattered very little in the end who played what as long as they played something and everyone was happy. He'd never heard of the Stranglers, of course, too young, and I'd barely heard of the Dangleberries, too old, but that didn't matter, it's good to blether. I also bumped into that well known Dingwall Thespian (I shall call her ‘Mrs C') who once gave such a convincing performance as a rabbit that momentarily and illogically I believed she might actually be one. She wasn't, of course.

Then on the Friday we headed back to Ullapool. The music was good, the weather not bad and many a respectable Ross-shire character was spotted in dodgy trousers with a buffalo burger or exotic crepe in hand dancing to the Rascals, the Red Hot Chilli Pipers and the Three Daft Monkeys. It was a good weekend. We shall return.

And in case you're wondering, I retained vertical status throughout, not a flattened bush to be seen anywhere.

Copyright Patrick Vickery

This article first appeared in the Ross-shire Journal and on the Rural Gateway