The Puddock, or Neil MacKenzie to give him his proper name, was the son of Sampy McKenzie who was, in turn, the man in overall charge of the salmon fishery; the man they all knew as the Gaffer. Consequently the Puddock was himself well known to the permanent employees. In fact he had briefly worked on the salmon fishing earlier that year, before coming down with a particularly nasty case of gastroenteritis, after a visit to the Bombay Duck Indian restaurant in Buckie. However, during his short spell on the crew he had made quite an impression, and it was generally agreed that he was almost certainly the laziest and most useless person to work on the salmon fishing in the two hundred years of its recorded history. As Robbie said, exaggerating only slightly, “the only times his hands left his pooches wis fan he wis pitting food in his moo.”
After the Puddock had struggled off the trailer, Brian backed it down the broad shingle bank – which the locals call the scap – and into the water where Robbie and he floated the coble off. After tying up the boat, Sandy, Robbie and Brian convened around the door of the bothy.
“So Sandy, is it a bet yer efter?” said Brian clapping his hands together and looking over at the Puddock who had, to the astonishment of the two students, just managed to put three whole, intact Wagon Wheels in his mouth simultaneously.
“Aye weel, I suppose so,” said Sandy, without much enthusiasm.
“Och, ye might as weel gie me the money noo,” said Brian, rubbing his hands together.
“Mind, ye lost last year…” said Sandy remembering the case of whisky the summer crew had won from the permanent crew the year before, having caught fifteen boxes of fish more than them over the course of the summer.
“Aye, ye’ve got an awfa short memory,” said Robbie.
“Aye and ye’ve got the Puddock,” replied Brian.

Robbie and Brian did not get on, partly because Robbie was still smarting that he had not been made skipper of the permanent crew when Sandy temporarily vacated the job to take charge of the inexperienced summer crew. After all, Brian had been on the fishing for only three years, and, unlike Robbie, had little idea of where the fish lay or when it was best to shoot the river. However, Brian was related by marriage to the Gaffer and, as Sandy had already noted, the salmon fishing was not a strict meritocracy, but to be fair to Robbie, envy wasn’t the only reason for his dislike; most of the other salmon fishers couldn’t stand Brian either, for he was one of those men who had been everywhere and done everything and, if you were in his company, you only had to mention the fact that you’d had a tin of pineapple rings for your supper and he would be off on some anecdote about “the time fan we wis unloading a cargo of steel in Honolulu…” because Brian had, before joining the salmon fishery, spent fifteen years in the merchant navy. Tales of far of lands, told occasionally, with a dash of self deprecation, can enliven a long shift, however, it can be wearing being stuck in a bothy on a cold, sleety night in April listening to the tale of the Bangkok ladyboy for the fifteenth time.
“There’s nae wy we’re losing tae him,” said Robbie, sparks of anger leaping in his eyes as the tractor disappeared through the trees behind the bothy.
“Aye weel then, in that case ye’d best get thon twa new boys sorted oot,” said Sandy, “oh and by the by, the Puddocks on an oar wi you.”
“Fit,” said Robbie incredulously, “but I thocht that we’d pit the Puddock on the sting…”
“Aye weel, that’s fit I wid hiv deen, but the Gaffer wants him toughened up.” Robbie shook his head, “It’s g’te be a lang summer,” he said, half to himself.

***

After Robbie had run through the rudiments of netting the river with the students, Jake and Black Alec loaded the net then Sandy instructed all of the summer crew to get in to the boat, with a view to showing the new recruits the ropes on the slower, easier Lower Bridge Pool.
“Sandy,” said Robbie checking the stroke of his oar as the boat reached midstream, “is there nae oer muckle watter in the bilge.”
“Aye, Jake, gie her a wee go wi the bailer,” said Sandy looking down from his position by the net at the back of the boat. Thirty seconds later the rate of ingress had increased dramatically and despite Jake’s best efforts with the bailer, the water was suddenly up to the ankles of the summer crew’s waders.
“Robbie, take her in, take her in,” said Sandy urgently, slipping his pipe into his pocket.
Robbie, straining every muscle in his huge back pulled at his oar, unfortunately the Puddock, who was on the other oar, caught a crab and fell backward into the rapidly filling bilge causing the boat to spin round so the stern was facing down river toward the onrushing rapids at the bottom of the pool. Robbie grabbed the Puddock’s oar and pulled hard toward the bank as the Puddock floundered around in the bilge.
“Hey you wi the short hair, get oot and land the boat,” shouted Sandy, as they drifted over a small spit of shingle running out from the far bank.
The short-haired student, painter in hand, threw himself from the prow of the boat, only barely managing to stay on his feet as the fast running water splashed up dangerously close to the tops of his waders, then turning, he dug his heels into the shingle and held on for dear life as the boat swept on down towards the brae at the bottom of the pool pulling him behind it like a waterskier.
And though his actions weren’t enough to stop the boat entirely, they slowed it enough so that it swung into slacker water giving Jake a chance to jump out and grab one of the rollocks. Robbie followed him and before long the inundated boat had been secured on the scap.
As the Puddock rung his t-shirt out, Robbie came up to the Stingman.
“Aye ye did a good job there, boy,” he said, clapping the short-haired student on the back and severely winding him in the process.

***

The official enquiry was held that evening in the Gaffer’s office, down by the icehouses at Tugnet. As they were waiting for the Gaffer to call them in, Brian taunted Sandy.
“So you went down wi the boat did ye?” said Brian laughing loudly.
“Verra funny,” said Robbie, “you kaent fit wis gan on, did ye?”
“I kaent nothing aboot it. It was a the Puddock’s fault.”
“That’s rubbish min,” said Robbie towering over Brian.
“Hit me and I’ll get the bobbies on te ye, I’ve got witnesses,” said Brian nervously. Fortunately for Brian, the Gaffer appeared in the door and called them through.
“O.K., so what happened?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette.
It didn’t take long for Sandy to explain why the boat had gone down, for the cause was quite clear. A coble needs to stand in the water for a week or so to let the dry clinker planks swell up and form a water-tight seal, which is why all the cobles were purposely “sunk” before use. The coble Brian had delivered to the summer crew was a dry coble and though it had floated fine when it was empty, as soon as the crew embarked, the extra weight, and therefore pressure, opened up the dry clinkers and let the water flood in.
“Brian delivered the wrang coble,” concluded Sandy.
“No, no, no, that’s nae true,” protested Brian.
“Are you saying it was deliberate?” asked the Gaffer, ignoring Brian, “because if you are, Sandy, that’s a serious accusation; we lost a hale day’s catch there.”
“All I’m saying is that it wis definitely a dry boat. And there wis nae wy we could tell until we actually got in. I mean, it could hae been a lot werse: we could easy o couped the boat…then fa kaens fit wid o happened.”
“But it wisna my fault,” said Brian, “it wis the Puddo…it wis young Neil fa telt me fit coble te tak.”
“Is that right?” asked the Gaffer after the Puddock had been called through from next door where he’d been watching Smokey and the Bandit on the video.
“I suppose so Dad, but I forgot fit een you telt me te tak and I didna kaen it wid mak ony difference,” said the Puddock lending much credence to Sandy’s earlier assertion that in this life it’s who you know, not what you know, that counts.

***

“Hey Stingman, fit’s that say on yer t-shirt?” asked Robbie, addressing the shorter-haired of the two students by his job title. The Stingman, who was lying with his eyes closed on the grass, didn’t answer.
“Oi, Stingman, fit dis it say on yer t-shirt?” repeated Robbie, louder this time.
“Joy Division,” replied the Stingman with his eyes still closed.
“Aye, but fit’s that?”
“It’s a band.”
“Like rock and roll?”
“Sort of.”
“And ye like this band?”
“Yep, they’re good.”
“De ye like em?” Robbie asked Gonzo.
“Nae chance; Joy Division are rubbish,” said Gonzo dismissively.
“No they’re not,” said the Stingman, opening his eyes and sitting up to defend the reputation of what he had recently concluded were his fourth favourite band of all time after The Velvet Underground at number three and before The Smiths at number five.
“Oh right,” said Robbie to Gonzo, “so fit music div ye listen te?”
“Heavy rock, heavy metal.”
“Heavy metal? Fit’s that fan it’s at hame?” asked Robbie.
“Led Zep, Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Rush, that sort of thing.” Robbie looked nonplussed.
“That’s ancient that stuff,” said the Puddock, “rave music’s the thing. Ye’ve got te move wi the times.”
“Why have you go to move with the times?” said Gonzo heatedly, “heavy rock is the best. And if you like something and you think it’s the best, what’s the point in changing just for the sake of it.”
“That’s like you wi yer tea, is it Robbie?” said Jake.
“Aye, I suppose so,” said Robbie who’d eaten the same tea since the day when, aged twelve, he informed his mother that mince, tatties and peas were his favourite meal and that he wanted it for his tea every night for the rest of his life. His mother, prone to spoiling the young Robbie, whose father had been killed in the second world war, didn’t refuse the request, reasoning that he would get bored with his new diet soon enough. A fair judgement, but one that proved wide of the mark for, though what Robbie had for his lunch and breakfast varied, thirty years later she was still preparing the same tea for the son who’d never moved out. Even when Robbie was in Dr Gray’s Hospital for two nights to get gall stones removed, his mother got the bus into Elgin and bought him in his mince, tatties and peas in a Tupperware box, and when she fell and broke her hip a few years later she arranged for Eileen next door to come in and cook Robbie his mince, tatties and peas.
“Do you not get bored with mince?” asked the Stingman. Robbie shook his head.
“What about Christmas? What do you do then?”
“I hae a Christmas denner for ma denner, and mince, tattie and peas fur ma tea.”
“It’s richt guid mince like,” said Sandy, in support of his first mate.
“Oh, so you’ve hid Robbie’s mither’s mince?” said Jake, suggestively.
“I’ve hid it as weel,” said the Puddock.
“Fan wis at?” asked Jake, smirking at the students.
“It wis aboot three year ago, fan ma faither took us up te first fit. I hid some then.”
“Mair than some,” muttered Robbie, “ye hid the hale pan.”
“Wis it guid?” asked Jake.
“Aye, it wis,” said the Puddock with a wistful look on his face.
“Fit aboot you Black Alec, hiv you hid Robbie’s mither’s mince afore?” asked Jake. Black Alec nodded.
“Am I the only een in the hale summer crew apart fae the students that’s nae hid Robbie’s mither’s mince?” asked Jake, winking at Gonzo, who was trying desparately not to laugh.
“Faur’s the gaffer,” said Black Alec angrily, “I’m needin to get awa.”
Sandy looked at his watch again and hoped that the Gaffer would appear soon.

***

“So fit kind o music is it that Joy Division play?” asked Robbie.
“Have a listen,” said the Stingman pulling the personal stereo from the pocket of his jacket.
As the Stingman rewound the tape Robbie examined the headphones suspiciously, as if they might deliver electro convulsive therapy or the like, before gingerly putting them on. Having found the right place, the Stingman pressed play, Robbie winced.
“Ye listen to this fur enjoyment?” he said, incredulous. The Stingman nodded.
“Fit’s it like?” Jake asked Robbie, after he’d removed the headphones.
“There was a lot a droning in the backgroon and the boy – weel, ye widna cry him a singer – he wis bawling awa, but I’ve nae idea fit he wis saying, and I’ve nae idea why they’re cried Joy Division, it’s the maist depressing thing I’ve ivir heard in ma life.”
“That’s the point; it’s ironic,” said the Stingman.
“It’s rubbish is fit it is; fit that singer needs is te get oot in the fresh air and dee some hard work and then he’d feel a bitty better.”
“What, like us?” said Gonzo rubbing his back, ironically.
“Mebbe the boy could dee wi’ some o’ Robbie’s mither mince,” said Jake smiling.
“He’s dead, Ian Curtis, the lead singer of Joy Division is dead,” said the Stingman, starting to get annoyed with the lack of respect afforded his fourth favourite band of all time.
“Aye weel, ma mither’s mince is guid, but it’ll nae bring him back,” said Robbie. Sandy looked at his watch again and sighed.
“That’s it, I’ve hid enough, fit this country needs is a socialist revolution to get rid o’ the toffs and the royals and the bosses,” said Black Alec, presumably angered by the fact that the salmon fishing was ultimately owned by the Crown Estates.
“Alec, de ye nae think it’s a wee bit o an overreaction, wanting to kill the Queen and young Charlie boy jist because the Gaffer’s twinty minutes late wi yer py,” said Jake, “and onyway, I thocht you voted Nationalist in the last election.”
“I did,” said Black Alec defensively, “I dinna see ony problem wi’ that. Fit I want is an independent, socialist Scotland.”
“So you would call yourself a national socialist?” asked the Stingman innocently. Black Alec thought for a second.
“Aye, I suppose I wid,” he replied. Jake, annoyed by Black Alec’s constant moaning, decided to join in on the joke.
“Mebbe you should start yer ain National Socialist Party,” he said wandering off behind Black Alec.
“Mebbe I should.”
“Then ye’d be able te sort oot the Gaffer,” said Jake, raising his right forefinger to his lip and zeig-heiling with his left as he goosestepped up and down behind Black Alec.
Sandy looked at his watch again and wondered what could be keeping the Gaffer.

***

“O.K then, fit’s this hivy stuff like,” said Robbie. Gonzo slipped a tape of AC/DC’s For Those About To Rock album into the personal stereo and Robbie put on the headphones a second time. After a minute or so Robbie removed them again.
“Och, it’s jist the same as the last stuff.”
“What,” said Gonzo, clearly disagreeing with Robbie’s judgement. The Stingman shook his head, “no it’s not,” he said, “it’s nothing like it.”
“It is so. I mean the boy’s screaming instead o moaning, and it’s a wee bitty faster, but it amoonts te the same thing: jist a hale lot o noise…you boys should listen to the King, noo there’s some real music.” However, before Robbie could say any more on the subject of Elvis Jake held his hand up and pointed down to the bottom of the Bridge Pool where an osprey was hanging motionless in the air above the brae. All the crew turned to get a better look as the bird dropped ten feet then hung for an instant before dropping the final forty feet into the shallow fast-flowing water in between the pools. For a moment the bird sat where it landed, looking around as if not sure what to do, then with a couple of flaps of its wings it took off, struggling clear of the water with a shining grilse held tight in its claws, and the summer crew were still watching the osprey fly slowly up the river with its catch, when the Gaffer pulled into the clearing by the bothy.
“Sorry I’m late boys,” he said, getting out of the pickup, “but the Bank in Fochabers was on strike, I hidta g’inte Elgin to get the wages.”

***

Despite the rest of the summer crew’s scepticism, the Skoda was a great boon to Robbie who had never owned a car before, and over the next few evenings it propelled him as far as Deveronside to the east and the banks of the Findhorn to the west, breaking down only once in the course of his travels and, fortunately for Robbie, that was only a few hundred yards from the garage at Alves. However, Robbie’s enjoyment of this new found freedom was marred somewhat by Gonzo who had been tormenting him all week with a seemingly unending stream of Skoda jokes.
“I say, I say, I say, what do you call a Sikoda with a sun roof?” asked Gonzo, after the fashion of music hall comedian. Robbie ignored him.
“I don’t know, Gonzo, what do you call a Sikoda with a sun roof?” replied the Stingman, who had adopted the role of straight man in what was a blossoming comic double act.
“A skip,” came the reply.
By the Thursday of the shift, however, the senior fishers, Jake included, found this brand of humour beginning to grate and at lunch time Sandy amended the unofficial constitution of the summer crew and introduced, with immediate effect, a ban on all Skoda jokes, widening the prohibition half way through the afternoon to include all derogatory or humorous references to any make of Eastern European car.
Despite the ban, Robbie was still smarting from the ill-treatment he had suffered at the hands of the students, and on his divagations around the North East, he wracked his brain for a way to get back at them. As it turned out, Robbie didn’t have to wait long before providence smiled on him once more when, that Saturday on a drive round Ordiequish and the Teindland, he stopped briefly at a jumble sale in the village hall at Inchberry where, next to a jigsaw of the Sydney Opera House (some missing pieces), he discovered the instrument of his revenge.

***

The next week found the summer crew on the nightshift; from 10 in the evening ‘til 6 the following morning. On the Monday, after the first couple of shots, Gonzo, the Stingman, and the Puddock were sat in the Puddock’s car listening to the radio. Robbie took the opportunity to show Sandy, Jake and Black Alec his Inchberry purchase.
“Fit is that; it’s clear like varnish or something,” said Sandy stirring the stick round the pot of paint that Robbie had produced from the boot of his car.
“O.K, but jist stay faur ye are, while I blow oot the lamps.”
“Fit are ye talking aboot,” said Black Alec, indignantly.
“You’ll see. You’ll see,” replied Robbie leaning over, extinguishing the two hurricane lamps which lit the bothy. However, instead of being plunged into darkness as Sandy, Jake and Black Alec had expected, the bothy remained lit by an ethereal glow radiating from the tin of paint Robbie had bought at Inchberry.
“Oh, my god Robbie fit on earth is that ye’ve got?” asked Sandy.
“Luminescent paint.”
“Fit?”
“It’s glow in the dark, kaen, like they use fur the watches.”
“And fit exactly are ye g’tae dee wi that?” asked Jake.
Robbie outlined his plan as he relit the hurricane lamps, concluding that, “all we need is een o thon black bin bags and we’re cooking by gas.”

***

The Friday of a night shift was disliked by all of the summer crew particularly the younger members who feared that they were missing out on some of the fun enjoyed by friends and compatriots in the local public houses and nightclubs, so it wasn’t unusual for the skipper to compensate and motivate his crew on a Friday night shift with a crate of beer purchased from the local hotel with a silver currency dragged from the river and beaten insensate on the first shot of the night.
And so it was that Friday, when Sandy sent Gonzo and the Stingman over to the hotel for a crate of Export. As soon as they had disappeared over the viaduct, Robbie put his plan into action.
About an hour later, Gonzo and the Stingman reappeared, both in a state of some agitation.
“Fit’s awrang boys?” asked Jake, deadpan, “you look like ye’ve seen auld Nick himsel’.”
“I think we have…I mean, we’ve jist seen something on that bridge, I don’t know what it was, but it was…uncanny,” said Gonzo, sitting down, his hands shaking.
“Fit de ye mean?” asked Jake, “come on, spit it oot.”
“It was glowing up there in the crossbeams of the viaduct, like a ghost. I mean, I don’t believe in all of that, but I mean I don’t know…it was just floating there and moaning…” said the Stingman.
“O.K.,” said Jake, looking sceptical, “but faur’s the beer? Dinna tell me the ghostie’s got it.” The Stingman was about to answer when the door of the bothy flew open causing both students, their nerves in tatters, to jump out of their seats.

***

“Aye well Robbie,” said Gonzo, when he’d been apprised of Robbie’s scheme with the black bin bag and the luminescent paint, “you wouldn’t be laughing quite so loud if you knew what that paint’s doing to your health.”
“Fit’s at yer saying?” asked Robbie, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes.
“That paint’s radioactive. It’ll gie you cancer. It’ll make your hair fall oot and yer family jewels drop off.”
“Och, just havers min,” said Robbie dismissively.
“Have you never heard of the Radium girls or the phossy jaw?” Robbie had not. Jake, who never really liked to see Robbie riding too high, reminded him that Gonzo had just completed the first year of a Chemistry degree at the University of Aberdeen.
Ten minutes later Robbie had disposed of the tin of luminescent paint in the large council rubbish bin beside the viaduct and though the worry of cancer and emasculation had taken some of the gloss off his revenge, he judged that overall he’d had the better of the exchange with the students, until, that was, the next evening when he was driving the Skoda back from his most ambitious journey yet: a trip with his mother to see his maiden aunt in Inverness. Spurred on by the problem-free journey up the A96, Robbie drove his mother and aunt to see the Hydro Scheme at Foyers before returning to her home in the Culduthel part of town where his aunt cooked them all mince, tatties and peas which he ate on a tray as he watched the Dirty Dozen on her new 21 inch colour television. By the time Robbie and his mother left Inverness it was getting dark, however, it wasn’t until they arrived home in Bogmoor that Robbie realised why people from Nairn onwards had been pointing and shouting at the car. When he discovered that someone had, on both wings of the Sikoda Estelle, written “The Shaggin Wagon” in luminescent paint.

***

A couple of days later Sandy’s harsh regime combined with a strong grilse run had not only seen the tempers of the summer crew die down, but had also seen them start to catch up with the total number of fish caught by the permanent crew. And Sandy, seeing an opportunity as the fish were still running strong, managed to get the Gaffer to agree to a Saturday shift. However, the summer crew, shattered from their exertions, were looking forward to their weekend. In particular the Puddock who had arranged to go up to Rothes on Friday night.
“Come on Robbie, I nivir hid onything te dee with the writin on yer car,” pleaded the Puddock. Robbie looked unconvinced.
“Come on Robbie, I’m only needin a lift up te Rothes.”
“Fit are ye deein in Rothes?”
“There’s a rave up there the night.”
“A roup?”
“No, nae a roup, a rave.”
“And fit’s that then?” asked Robbie.
“It’s like a dance in a field, wi electronic techno music,” explained the Puddock.
“Dancing in a park?” said Jake who had been listening to the conversation, “in my day we used to gan te the dances at the hotel up at the Craig. Ye’d drink a hauf bottle ootside and if ye didna get a trap, ye’d be guaranteed a fecht. I hid some cracking fechts up there…” said Jake, a glint of nostalgia in his eye.
“Naebody fechts at the raves, abdy’s on Ecstacy…” said the Puddock.
“Dis that nae send you loop the loop?” asked Jake who had recently read an article on the rave scene in the paper.
The Puddock shrugged and popped another Refresher in his mouth. “Nae really, it’s nae as bad as the drink. Drink’d be made illegal if they tried te introduce it these days.”
“Rave music’s rubbish,” said Gonzo.
“Fit’s rubbish is heavy metal; it’s deid. Yer living in the past.”
“Metal’ll never die,” said Gonzo, emphatically.
“It could be fun though,” suggested the Stingman.
“Ah’m nae takin thon twa in the car, if that’s fit yer thinking,” said Robbie looking at the students.
“We’ll py you,” said the Puddock.

***

The light was fading when Robbie dropped the three younger members of the summer crew at Rothes.
“Mind, I’ll be back at 5.00 am sharp, so we get doon te the fishing for the start at six,” said Robbie.
“Aye, that’s fine,” said the Puddock, looking round the field where a crowd of about three hundred people where gathered round a large sound system and light show.
“If yer nae here I’ll jist turn roon and leave.” Having reassured Robbie, the Puddock disappeared in order to make a connection, while Gonzo and the Stingman wandered round to check out what was going on. Gonzo was not impressed.
“Look at them, they look like idiots,” he said of three young men, stripped to the waist, wearing welding googles and waving Glo-sticks in the air in front of a speaker stack pumping hardcore Dutch gabba into the Morayshire evening air at 180 bpm.
“There’s some good looking women,” observed the Stingman.
“Aye, but they’re only interested in dancing,” replied Gonzo as the Puddock reappeared with one of the organisers of the rave – a young Glaswegian man with neon pink hair.
“Awright man, what ye needin?” he asked, looking around furtively.

***

Robbie’s arrival at Rothes, at quarter to five, caused some consternation among the rave goers, who at first thought, much as Jake had suggested might happen, that the Skoda was a police car. However, once reassured by the Puddock, several of them gathered round the car.
“See that car, that’s absolutely magic,” said the pink haired rave organiser, “it’s magic, man. Look how it’s glowing in the dark. It’s pure brilliant.”
“Aye weel, the less said aboot that the better,” said Robbie glaring at the Stingman.
“No man, I love it man, it’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful car I’ve ever seen, man.”
“Aye, it is good, like,” agreed Robbie, standing back and admiring his recent purchase.
“How much dae ye want fur it, man?” said the pink haired Glaswegian who was jigging up and down to the beat of the music.
“No, I’m nae selling,” said Robbie instinctively.
“Look, I’ll gie ye 500 notes, right now, man,” said the rave organiser, pulling a large roll of bills from his pocket.
“Well, ah’m nae sure…” said Robbie who had paid £300 for the car only two weeks before.
“Right, £600.”
“Aye but hoo are we g’te get doon tae the fishing?”
“£700, that’s ma final offer.”
“He’ll take it,” said the Stingman hastily, shaking the rave organiser’s hand.
While Robbie counted the money, the Puddock went and called a taxi and the Stingman searched for Gonzo who he eventually found, stripped to the waist, dancing in front of one of the speaker stacks, wearing a pair of welding goggles and waving a Glo-stick in the air.
“The Puddock was right,” shouted Gonzo, “this is the best music in the world.”

***

That morning the summer crew were somewhat more subdued than normal. All apart from Robbie.
“I got £700 for the car, that’s fowr huner pound mair than I paid fur it…and I bargained him richt up, did I?” he said turning to the Stingman.
“You played him like a fiddle,” said the Stingman, who just wanted to catch twenty minutes sleep in between shots.
“That’s right, he wanted to gie me £500, but I bargained him up te £700. It mist huv been like watching Willie McPherson himsel.”

***

The next weekend Gonzo made the trip into Elgin and bought half a dozen 12 inch rave tracks, however, halfway through listening to the second one he realised that his damascene conversion in a field near Rothes might have been a little hasty. As he was heard to comment later.
“The music’s total rubbish unless you’re off your head.”
A week after the rave at Rothes, the pink-haired organiser was stopped on the M8 where the police, upon searching the Sikoda, found a bag containing 50 Ecstasy tablets. He was charged with “possession with intent to supply” and the Skoda was confiscated under the proceeds of crime provisions in the Criminal Justice Act 1988. A couple of months later, in his second Old Firm game Maurice Johnston scored a decisive goal for his new team and sealed his place in the Rangers fans’ affections, causing the notoriously parsimonious Black Alec to sorely regret his decision to burn his scarf and the Puddock to demand that all mention of him be expunged from the Celtic record books. At the end of the summer, just before he went back to university for the new year, Gonzo sold his six rave 12 inches to the Puddock for a third of their face value.

“At Trumpyngtoun, nat fer fro Cantebrigge,
Ther gooth a brook, and oer that a brigge,
Upon the whiche brook ther stant a melle;
And this is verray sooth that I yow telle.”

“That’s the wy they speak o’er in Turra,” said Robbie, looking astonished, “I swear tae God, it’s like my cousin fae Auchterless is in the room wi us the noo.” Sandy held his finger up to his lips and looked at Robbie, then back at the Stingman.
“Oh, aye sorry, go on,” said Robbie apologetically. The Stingman started again.

“A millere was ther dwellynge many a day.
As any pecok he was proud and gay.
Pipen he koude and fisshe, and nettes beete
And turne coppes, and wel wrastle and sheete;”

“Noo, I didna quite get that bit…” said Robbie shaking his head, “but then I dinna really understan ma cousin hauf the time.”
“Weel, for a start, he said the miller wis gay, jist like you Robbie,” said the Puddock, ducking out of the way as Robbie tried to grab him. When they’d settled down again the Stingman explained:
“It says that the miller could play the bagpipes and fish and mend nets…he liked a drink and he could wrestle and shoot.”
“That’s the kind o boy we need in the summer crew,” said Jake, “he plays the pipes, Alec, even though he’s English.” Black Alec looked unimpressed.
“I dinna understand fit the point o’ studying nuvels is,” he said again, causing the Stingman to point out that irrespective of whether Black Alec saw the point or not, he was funding the Stingman’s grant, and therefore study of literature with his taxes. A revelation which caused much consternation among the summer crew who were only calmed when Sandy forced them out into the biting north easterly for the last shot of the day.

***

The next day Robbie and Black Alec walked into the bothy with broad smiles on their faces.
“Fit are you pair looking so smug aboot?” asked the Puddock.
“Me and Alec, we’ve jist bocht fifteen hunner spent hens.”
“Really,” said Sandy sceptically, “fit are ye g’tae dee wi them?”
“We’re keeping them on Jake’s ferm, ‘til we sell them.”
“Is that richt?” asked Sandy, turning to Jake.
“Aye,” said Jake, who ran a small croft in Clochan which he worked alongside his job on the summer crew, “they’re rentin een o ma steadings.”
“Fan ah’ve selt them, I’ll easy hae enough for a daecent Mark II Escort,” said Robbie cheerfully.
However, Robbie was not so enthusiastic when the hens were delivered to Jake’s two days later. Old battery hens are a pitiful sight: featherless, debeaked and distressed, many have broken bones and few can stand properly. The bottom of the trailer was littered with birds which had died on the short journey from the battery farm just outside Elgin.
“Are you sure this is O.K.?” asked Robbie, who was at heart an animal lover and quite upset by the sight of the suffering birds.
“Aye, dinna fash yersel,” said Black Alec, kicking one of the dead birds off the trailer, “I factored in fur a few deid eens.”
For the next three days Robbie cycled up to Jake’s farm every morning to feed the birds. It troubled him every time he saw them huddled in the corner of the small barn, and he began to wish that he’d taken Sandy, the Puddock’s or even Gonzo’s investment advice. Robbie’s dark mood was deepened when the advert went in the Northern Scot that Friday, as by the Saturday evening they had sold a mere ten birds.
“I canna believe I listened tae Alec,” said Robbie to himself, as he tried to work out how much he might lose if the birds kept selling at the same rate.
The next day, as the summer crew stood round the netbox getting ready for the first shot of the day, Robbie and Black Alec tried to persuade Jake to lower the rent on the barn. Jake refused.
“Sorry boys, but business is business, yer aridy getting a highly preferable rate.”
“I dinna kaen fit we’re g’te dee,” moaned Black Alec, who had also invested some money from his post office savings account in the venture, “we could lose aathin.”
“I might be able to help you,” said the Stingman.
“Fit wy?” asked Black Alec suspiciously.
“Alec, calm doon, listen te the boy, he’s trying te help ye…” said Jake.
“So fit is it ye think ye can dee?” asked Robbie.
“Well, look at your advert for a start,” said the Stingman, “what does it say?”
“Spent hens. Call Robbie. Bogmoor 284.”
“So fit’s awrang wi that?” said Black Alec to the Stingman.
“Well, ‘spent hens’, for a start that’s not an appealing concept. You’ll sell nothing if you keep on calling them that.”
“So fit wid you say?” The Stingman thought for a moment.
“Prime roasters…casserole chickens…something like that, and the name, I would change the Call Robbie and Bogmoor bit as well, to something like Call Speymouth Quality Foods. It sounds more professional.” Black Alec looked sceptical. “That’s oer lang, we pye by the character for that advert, that’s g’te cost us a fortune.”
“Maybe Alec, but sometimes you’ve got to speculate to accumulate,” replied the Stingman.

***

That Saturday the phone never stopped ringing, with ‘Prime Roasters’ and ‘Casserole Chickens’ literally flying out of the door. The next Monday, Robbie and Black Alec were delighted. “Aye weel,” conceded Black Alec, “mebbe there is some yees in studying nuvels.” The Stingman felt more equivocal about the use of his literary talents for the sale of spent hens, however, he was pleased to get Black Alec off his back.
Robbie and Black Alec were less pleased, when, four weeks later, they discovered that the poor start and a higher than expected mortality rate had diminished their profits by such a degree that neither man made more than a few pounds for all their effort. The only member of the summer crew who was truly happy with the affair of the spent hens was Jake who had rented Robbie and Black Alec the barn.

***

Two days after the storm, Sandy was sitting outside the bothy relaxing after a shot when the two students came running down from the viaduct.
“Sandy, Sandy, we’ve just seen the monster,” said the Stingman breathlessly. Sandy stood up, then sat back down again.
“Aye, aye boys, ye almost hid me there,” he said, picking up the paper nonchalantly.
“No, no, Sandy,” said Gonzo, “come and see, I swear if we’re lying, you can gie us oor jotters.”
Up on the viaduct, Sandy and Robbie lay looking down through the metal slats to the water below. It was Robbie who spoke first.
“That’s him skip. See his ee. It’s missing ” Sandy said nothing, but lay there, watching the monster which “swam before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies…all that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain.”
“Fit are we g’te dee, skip?” asked Robbie.
“We’re g’te shoot under the brig. I’m nae letting him get awa this time,” said Sandy calmly determined.
“No, skip, ye canna, the current’s oer strang and there’s the rocks fae the railway line, ye’ll get the gear snagged.” But Sandy wasn’t listening. He stood up and brushed himself down and he was just about the turn back towards the bothy when something fell from his pocket, clattering noisily before falling through one of the slats in the iron bridge and into the the dark water below.
“Fit wis that?” asked Robbie.
“Ma lighter.”
“The een yer niece gave ye?”
“Aye, but is the fush still there,” said Sandy apparently unconcerned by the loss of this prized possession.
“Aye,” said the Puddock, who was still lying down watching the fish.

***

The Puddock was left stationed on the viaduct to keep an eye on the fish while the rest of the crew got ready.
“Sandy, are ye sure…” said Robbie.
“Robbie, fa’s skipper o’ this crew?” said Sandy with a fixed look on his face.
Salmon fishers always shoot a pool from the top, making best use of the current, however in their attempt to catch the monster, Robbie and Jake had to row under the bridge and against the current as it wasn’t possible to launch a boat from the top of the pool on the other side, so it was with no little skill and effort that Robbie and Jake managed to get the boat in place so that Sandy could lay the net between the monster and the stone pier without scaring it unduly. When they landed the head of the net everyone was quiet, concentrating on the job at hand. When the net was halfway in, the water suddenly exploded and the monster breached, but the Puddock and Gonzo were on hand to lift the corks, thwarting its attempted escape.
“We’ve got him this time,” said Robbie, excitedly, but when they got the net onto the scap there was no sign of the great fish which had escaped through a large hole ripped in the net by the large jagged rocks used for the railway line embankment.

***

When the rest of the crew left that night, Sandy locked the bothy and walked over to the bank of the river, where he stood for a long while looking into the dark, brooding water running under the bridge. The great fish had eluded him once more.

***

As the bottle green Range Rover pulled away up the track Black Alec spat on the ground. “Aye ye wis fair sooking up te they toffs,” he said to Sandy with some disgust, “gnepping awa like ye wis back at the school.”
“Aye, aye it’s aa viry weel fur you Alec, but yer nae permanent, and at the end of the day, thon boys could get me sackit.”
“That’s rubbish, min.”
“Aa the same, it disna herm to te keep in wi the rods,” replied Sandy slipping the bottle of Macallan ten year old, which had just come into his possession, into the boot of his car.
Two mornings later the rod fishermen were back. The taller of the two bounded out of the car and grabbed Sandy by the hand.
“Look Sandy old boy, I just want to thank you,” he said effusively, “I took five fish yesterday. Fresh run grilse. Sea lice still on them. Everywhere else was dead as a duck. Except Essil Pool. Exactly where you said.”
“Yes, yes, but it was you that caught them, not me,” said Sandy magnanimously.
“Well, yes of course, but all the same…”
“Not a problem. Not a problem,” said Sandy, bending down to unlock the coble. When he stood up again, he was surprised to find the tall man still hanging around.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” asked Sandy.
“Well actually, yes there is…the thing is that Johnny – he’s the chap in the car – he’s new to the game. Bought all the gear. Keen as mustard. Hasn’t caught a thing. Not a sniff. Now I think I know the problem, but that’s where I need some help.”

***

“Sorry Sandy, did you just say you want a pair of woman’s knickers?” said Gonzo incredulously.

“Wheesht min,” said Sandy looking furtive, “I dinna want this gettin roon.”
“You’re nae some some sort of pervert are you?” asked Gonzo.
“Absolutely not,” said Sandy indignantly, “it’s fur the toffs, nae me.”
“Are they perverts?” asked the Stingman.
“No, no, no boys, it’s for the oestrogen,” said Sandy.
“And why would they want that?” asked the Stingman, fearing that the skipper of the summer crew had lost his mind.
“Because,” said Sandy, “aa the biggest salmon hiv bin cocht by wumen”

And what Sandy said was true: the record for the heaviest salmon caught by rod and line in the British Isles is held by a Miss Georgina Ballantine who landed the monster 64 pound fish after a ten hour struggle on the banks of the River Tay in 1922; and the record for a salmon caught on the fly is also held by a woman; a 61 1/2 pound whopper caught by Mrs Tiny Morison on the Mountblairy beat of the River Deveron in Banffshire. Indeed, several more of the largest salmon ever caught in British waters have been landed by the fairer sex; a group greatly in the minority in the salmon fishing community.
No one is absolutely sure why women have been so much more successful than men when it comes to catching big fish, however, many men have concluded – having discounted the idea that it might be down to skill on the women’s part – that the fish, as Sandy explained to the students, are attracted to the female hormone, oestrogen. Whether this is true or not is debatable, however, many game fishermen, in order to dupe the fish, keep their tackle – fishing tackle that is – in a pair of their wife’s unmentionables: one thing that was not for sale in the fancy Mayfair shop where the Cock o the North had bought his outfit.
“Couldn’t you just take a pair of Meg’s knickers?” said Gonzo when Sandy had finished explaining the situation. A pained look crossed Sandy’s face.
“Boys, there’s £10 in it for each of ye, if ye can produce a pair of wifey’s unmentionables for first thing the morn’s morn.”
After the shift finished, the Stingman and Gonzo retired to the pool room of the local hotel to work out a plan of action and to spend their, as yet unearned, windfall.
“What about your aunty?” Gonzo asked the Stingman who was lodging with his aunt for the summer.
“Or your mother?” said the Stingman wincing.
“O.K, no family,” said Gonzo with a slight shudder.
“What about the AK 47?” asked the Stingman, referring to a female acquaintance of Gonzo’s from Portgordon. Gonzo shook his head, “She’s in Magaluf for two weeks and besides, she doesn’t really wear any knickers.”
Several pints and games of pool later and suddenly closing time was upon the two students and they still weren’t any closer to having secured the unmentionables.
“I say we just steal a pair off a washing line,” said Gonzo as they left the pub.
“Aye, but Sandy said they had to be unwashed, you know, for the oestrogen.”
“I’ll stick them in the cat’s basket for the night. Nobody’ll be any the wiser.”
After a short walk around the village, the Stingman and Gonzo found what they were looking for: a house with a line full of washing, including several pairs of surprisingly scant and lacy women’s knickers. Unfortunately, as neither Gonzo nor the Stingman were resident in the village they didn’t know whose house it was, and they had scaled the large paling fence and reached the washing line when Rocky the Rotweiler skidded round the corner of the conservatory.
“Oh my god,” said the Stingman, taking to his heels, ploughing straight through a bed of newly planted polyanthus and flinging himself over the tall wooden fence in the manner of an army recruit on an assault course. Unfortunately, Gonzo wasn’t so quick, and though he made it onto the fence, the dog managed to grab the heel of his wader and, feeling the jaws of the beast tighten, there was nothing Gonzo could do but straighten his foot and let the dog have his prize.

***

First thing the next morning, Sandy sidled up to Gonzo.
“Did ye get fit I wanted?”
“Aye, but there’s a problem.”
“Fit’s that?”
“I’ve lost one of my waders.”
Half an hour later, the summer crew were ready for the first shot of the day, but the rod fishermen still hadn’t appeared. Sandy slipped the black lacy pants back to Gonzo.
“O.K., you hing roon the bothy till the gaffer appears wi yer new widers, and if the toffs come, gie them the unmentionables and tak the fifty pound. And dinna try te swick me, or ye’ll be the werse fur it.”
Sure enough, as the summer crew where shooting the lower Bridge Pool, the rod fishermen appeared.
“I say, you haven’t seen Sandy have you,” asked the taller of the two.
“Yes, he’s down there, but I think I’ve got what you’re looking for,” replied Gonzo, reaching into his pocket and producing the lacy briefs.
“Splendid, splendid,” said the tall man shoving them into his pocket.
“Actually, they’re my girlfriend’s…”
“Oh, well, yeah,” said the tall man handing the fifty pounds over to Gonzo, “and er, thank her from us.”
Five minutes after the rod fishermen had disappeared the Gaffer turned up with the new waders.
“Is it you needs the new widers?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes, I managed to put a hole in the other one.”
“Right, that’ll be sixty pound.”
“What?” said Gonzo.
“Ye get one pair free wi the job; replacement pairs are sixty pound each. If ye’ve nae got it on ye, gie it te Sandy by the end o the week.” And though Gonzo was tempted to give the Gaffer the unmentionable money, he thought that it was best not to get on the wrong side of Sandy.

***
.
Two days later, Sandy and Robbie were patching a net holed during the recent high water when the bottle green Range Rover pulled up outside the bothy once again.
“Sandy, Sandy there you are,” said the tall man, springing out of the car.
“What is it?” asked Sandy, a little alarmed by the man’s enthusiasm.
“This is for you and this is for the chap over there who got the knickers,” he said brandishing two fifty pound notes as he pointed at Gonzo.
“Aye, but ye’ve already paid us…”
“I know, but yesterday,” said the tall rod fisherman, putting his arm round the shoulders of the Cock o’ the North, “Johnny here, landed a forty nine pound salmon. It’s the largest fish caught on that beat in over fifty years. One of the largest ever caught on the Spey.” The Cock o the North smiled diffidently, the pheasant feather in his Tam O’Shanter fluttering in the light breeze.
“Nae the monster…” said Robbie turning to Sandy.
“Nivir,” said Sandy.
“It must be,” said Robbie.
“Was it blind in one eye?” asked Sandy.
“How did you know that?” said the tall rod fisherman with a look of surprise.
As the bottle green Range Rover pulled away, Sandy, still grim faced at the thought that the great fish had fallen to the Cock o’ the North, turned to Gonzo, “I dinna kaen fit you’re grinning aboot,” he said, “I’ll hae that fifty pound fur the widers. And ye still owe me a tenner.”

The salmon fishers were used to an audience, and there were often a couple of dog walkers or rod fisherman watching them work the river, but they never let that affect the way they dressed, however, it was a remarkably smart looking summer crew that turned up on the day of Jock Stewart’s visit. Sandy was wearing his best pair of waders, Robbie had run a comb through his hair and even Black Alec had gone so far as to wash his neck. The only disappointment was the students.
“Look, at ye,” said Robbie, “ye look like a pair of wild tinks fae the Belts.”
“We’re keeping it real,” said Gonzo who had back-combed his long mane of hair for the occasion, while the Stingman had put on his Public Enemy t-shirt especially.
Robbie was about to say more when a long wheel base Landrover, towing a large, expensive-looking caravan lumbered up the track from the main road.
The driver of the Landrover, a middle-aged man with thick, grey shoulder length hair hanging over his open-collared cambric shirt wound down the window.
“Is this the salmon fishery?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said Robbie.
“I’m the director of Jock Stewart’s Big Walk Around Scotland, can I speak to err…Sandy, please,” said, the grey-haired man, casting an eye over the production notes lying on the dashboard.
“That’s me,” said Sandy stepping forward.
“Excellent, excellent,” said the director opening the door, and sizing Sandy up with the lens that hung on a silver chain around his neck. “O.K., lads let’s get set up,” he said, turning to the film crew sitting in the back of the Landrover.
“Where’s Jock,” asked Robbie as the film crew unloaded their gear and started setting up.
“Er, he’s still in bed,” said the director looking round at the caravan, “he’s feeling a little under the weather. It’s this ‘flu that’s going round.”
“I thocht he wis supposed tae be walkin the length o Scotland, hoo could he be deeing that if he got a lift here in the caravan,” said Black Alec to Jake as the director walked off to supervise the crew.
“The boy’s ill, Alec,” said Jake smiling, “he’s got the ‘flu that’s gan aroon.”
“Fit ‘flu is that?”
Robbie frowned. “The een he cocht in the hotel bar last night – he wis in there til three o’clock fae fit Sylvia Main telt me fan I wis picking up ma paper.”
When the film crew had set up, the director took Sandy to one side.
“There’s just a couple of things I want to go through while Jock gets prepared. Firstly, he doesn’t really like people looking him directly in the eye. Now, I know it’s a little difficult to get used to, but he gets a lot of attention, so it would be good if you asked your men not to look directly at him.” Sandy nodded his head.
“Also, we’re going to have to get rid of those two,” said the director pointing to the Stingman and Gonzo, “we want to keep this as authentic as possible.”
“Well, they’re part of the crew,” said Sandy hesitantly, “I mean, he’s the Stingman.”
“Look Sandy, I don’t mean to be obtuse, but our viewers expect a certain type of thing from Jock’s programmes. And that,” said the director pointing at the two students, “is not it.” As Sandy pondered how best to break the news to the students, a middle-aged man wearing a purple shellsuit stuck his head out of the caravan.
“Jeremy,” he shouted, “where’s ma lighter, who’s seen ma lighter?” Jeremy rolled his eyes.
“Don’t worry Jock. I’m coming. I’m coming.”

***

“What do you mean we’re not authentic. We’re authentic as it comes,” said the Stingman indignantly.
“Boys, I’m sorry, but there’s nithing I can dee. It’s fur the TV.”
“We’re keeping it real,” said Gonzo.
“The director disna want that.”
“You could stand up for us on principle,” said the Stingman.
“Aye, but he said he widna dee it if you were in it. He said there wis plinty ither things he could film.”
“Aye, and we’re nae missing oor chance jist because you twa nivir made the effort tae pit on daecent claithes,” added Robbie, and Gonzo was about to reply when the caravan door opened and Jock Stewart stepped out. A miraculous change had come over the portly television presenter. Gone was the purple shell suit, replaced by a brightly coloured voluminous kilt and a puffy white shirt with a lace up collar such as pirates used to wear.
“Wid ye look at thon sark,” said Black Alec, amazed by the frilly, open-collared shirt Jock was wearing.
“Noo there’s an authentic Scotsman fur ye,” said Jake smiling at the students.

***

“Sandy, Sandy, Sandy, my auld friend, hoo are you?” asked Jock, striding over to were Sandy stood mending a net.
“Very well, Jock,” said Sandy, a little awkwardly.
“Hoo lang has it been, Sandy?” asked Jock, slipping his arms out of the straps of the small canvas knapsack he was carrying.
“Sorry,” said Sandy, looking perplexed.
“Since we last met…look, Jeremy, has he no been briefed,” said Jock angrily, as he turned to the director. Jeremy filled Sandy in as Jock walked back to his mark.
“Sorry Sandy, one of the conventions we follow is that Jock is an old friend of all the people he meets. It helps the folks at home to feel more comfortable with the format. You know, they all believe that Jock is their friend so, of course, any friend of Jock’s must, by extension, be a friend of theirs.”
“So Sandy, Sandy, Sandy, hoo lang has it been?” asked Jock a second time.
“A long time,” replied Sandy uncertainly.
“Aye weel Sandy, it’s ‘richt guid’ to see you again, de ye mind the capers we used tae hae…” said Jock wrapping his arm round Sandy and grinning broadly at the camera.
“Cut,” shouted the director.
“What is it this time?” asked an enraged Jock, “that was fine for me.” The Director pointed to the river bank behind the two men where the Stingman and Gonzo had somehow managed to accidentally wander into shot.
“We’ll take it from your piece to camera…” said the director after the students had been moved away and severely warned about further encroachment.
“This is my old friend Sandy Geddes, captain of the salmon boats on the River Spey. It was Sandy that taught ‘wee Jocky Stewart’ all he knows about the salmon. Isn’t that right Sandy?” said Jock wrapping his arm round Sandy again.
“Aye, that’s right Jock,” said Sandy, slightly confused by the presenter’s detour into the third person.
“Aye, Sandy,” said Jock suddenly breaking into song,

“for we twa hae run aboot the braes,
And pou’d the gowans fine,
But we’ve wander’d monie a weary fit,
Sin auld lang syne.”

“O.K, cut there. That’s perfect Jock, perfect,” said the director when Jock had finished singing, “now let’s get the boys in the boats and get some of the action shots.” As the film crew moved their equipment down onto the bank Jock reached into his sporran and pulled out a packet of Superkings, lit one then offered the packet to Sandy. Sandy shook his head and pulled out his pipe.
“Look Sandy, ye don’t know if there’s a massage parlour around here do ye. In Elgin or something? I need a good rub down,” said Jock winking at Sandy.
“Mebbe, but I widna really kaen,” replied Sandy thoughtfully, “but ye could aye nip inta the Doctor’s surgery in Fochabers, if it’s a bad back ye’ve got.” Jock seemed nonplussed by the idea.
“So where are you off te next?” asked Sandy trying to keep the converstaion alive.
“We’re off to a distillery tonight,” said Jock rubbing his hands together, “then back to Marbella.”
“Oh, are you off on a holiday?” asked Sandy.
“No, no, I live there. Get away from this manky weather. It’s very ‘tax efficient’ as weel, if you know what I mean…actually, if you’re interested in moving out there, I’ve got a thing going with these Russian guys who run a timeshare complex…it’s a great deal…only thirty miles from the sea,” said Jock rummaging in his sporran and handing Sandy a card he found there.

***

The salmon crew, minus the students, spent the rest of the afternoon rowing up and down the river to satisfy the demands of Jock and the director, and by the time they were finished they were all thoroughly disenchanted with the process of film-making. However, their spirits lifted when they returned to the bothy where they discovered the two students sitting on fishboxes drinking beer and reading magazines.
“Have a drink boys,” said Gonzo, pointing to two cases of beers and a bottle of whisky standing next to the large pile of glossy magazines.
“What on earth…” said Jock. Jake walked over and picked up one of the magazines.
“Oh, my god, will ye tak look at her, she’s nae shy,” he said, showing the magazine to the rest of the crew.
“Her mither mist be richt proud o her,” said Robbie, shaking his head.
“Faur aboots did ye get aa this fae?” asked Sandy.
“The mobile lending library,” said Gonzo, pointing at Jock’s caravan. Jock turned red and started spluttering.
“Aye, it’s not a walking tour of Scotland that he’s on…” said the Stingman, placing heavy emphasis upon the verb, however, before he could continue he was interrupted by Sandy.
“Look boys, gie Jock back his, er…reading material.”
“They’re no mine, they’re nothing to de with me,” said Jock hastily.
“Jock, what do you think of her,” asked Gonzo, holding up the magazine he was reading, but Jock had already disappeared into his caravan.
When Jock Stewart’s Big Walk Around Scotland aired in the New Year there was no mention of his visit to the salmon fishery at the mouth of the Spey, or his old friend Sandy Geddes, with whom he’d ‘pou’d the gowans fine’ and had taught him all he knew about the salmon.