I think it was the cry of the osprey that first made me look towards the vast stretch of water
known as Loch McSheddy, that honourable call of the world's best fisherman hinted that
an early breakfast was on it's way for it's young waiting in their massive home on a treetop
somewhere.
High in the air, the bird wheeled around ready for it's diving run towards some dozing
unsuspecting fish that had ventured too close to the lake's surface. No human eye could
emulate the osprey's gaze and now with wings tucked tight, no human could counterfeit the
speed for the kill.
Following it's flight path, my focus was snatched from the blurred angler as I suddenly
noticed a man standing on a small island far out across the loch. Being it was the wee
-small hours and day-break was only moments away, I was surprised to see another soul
out-and-about among these windy glens and chilly mountains.
It was Gordi, the head of the McGordi clan. His thick tousled hair moving in the breeze
like the grouse-hiding heather at his naked feet. The smiling giant had been watching
me watching the bird of prey, watching the fish.
The morning sun suddenly burst into the rich valley and as I squinted from my huddled
campsite, I saw more of the legendary man's features. The greying beard that still held
the early dew, the hairy legs like stout oak trees beneath the famous tartan kilt and that
winning smile I'd heard about as a child.
Gordi Tam O' Shanter McGordi, surveying his estate and taking in the morningtide.
Leaving my frying bacon and steaming pot of coffee, I arose and made my way towards
the loch's edge for a better view. The thistles bobbed good morning as I clambered down
to where the peaty waters waited.
A hand waved and complied with the gesture, yet my true focus was on not falling down as
I traversed the craggy terrain and ankle-tangling heather. One may believe the Scotsman
was appreciating this town-man's woes of being out of his comfort zone. But if he was, no
sign of mockery could be seen in that pleasing smile.
"Stay where yer' are..." Gordi said in a rich brogue tone "...'ah'll be comin across" and with
a gulp of air that would rival a stamped-on bagpipe, he dived into the cold water with only
the lightest of splashes.
Thick sinewy muscles propelled him and his foamy wake quickly faded as he ploughed
through the water with ease. To watch the man behave in a manner of the salmon that
inhabit the loch was a sight to see... a sight to see.
Within moments, the tall man stood on the pebbled beach and with blue eyes of the clearest
mountain stream, he took in the gawping sassenach before him. The breeze slowed as we
waited for time to prompt the next comment.
Nibbling my bottom lip and attempting a feeble smile, I snatched the opportunity to give
utterence to the comment I'd overheard in the tavern the night before. I took it the way the
osprey had grasped the scaly loch-dweller forgotten.
"Erm, happy birthday Mr. McGordi" I mumbled and jammed my hand into the front-pocket
of my cagoule. It wasn't much, but I'd heard he liked the stuff.
Gordi's face broke into a smile in a similar way the sun had tore into the glen earlier as he
eyed my meagre gift. One could suggest the beaming betrayed his need for what lay in my
trembling hand.
"Aye, she's a bonny-one" he whispered and thanked me with a slight bow. Up here, where
men are men and sheep are nervous, gratitude is difficult to display when you're commando
under the kilt.
I write this from the warmth of the tavern now and the words cause to me smile and shake
my head in wonder. I mean, what on earth would a solitary man living on an island want with
duct tape?
Happy Birthday, big fella.
known as Loch McSheddy, that honourable call of the world's best fisherman hinted that
an early breakfast was on it's way for it's young waiting in their massive home on a treetop
somewhere.
High in the air, the bird wheeled around ready for it's diving run towards some dozing
unsuspecting fish that had ventured too close to the lake's surface. No human eye could
emulate the osprey's gaze and now with wings tucked tight, no human could counterfeit the
speed for the kill.
Following it's flight path, my focus was snatched from the blurred angler as I suddenly
noticed a man standing on a small island far out across the loch. Being it was the wee
-small hours and day-break was only moments away, I was surprised to see another soul
out-and-about among these windy glens and chilly mountains.
It was Gordi, the head of the McGordi clan. His thick tousled hair moving in the breeze
like the grouse-hiding heather at his naked feet. The smiling giant had been watching
me watching the bird of prey, watching the fish.
The morning sun suddenly burst into the rich valley and as I squinted from my huddled
campsite, I saw more of the legendary man's features. The greying beard that still held
the early dew, the hairy legs like stout oak trees beneath the famous tartan kilt and that
winning smile I'd heard about as a child.
Gordi Tam O' Shanter McGordi, surveying his estate and taking in the morningtide.
Leaving my frying bacon and steaming pot of coffee, I arose and made my way towards
the loch's edge for a better view. The thistles bobbed good morning as I clambered down
to where the peaty waters waited.
A hand waved and complied with the gesture, yet my true focus was on not falling down as
I traversed the craggy terrain and ankle-tangling heather. One may believe the Scotsman
was appreciating this town-man's woes of being out of his comfort zone. But if he was, no
sign of mockery could be seen in that pleasing smile.
"Stay where yer' are..." Gordi said in a rich brogue tone "...'ah'll be comin across" and with
a gulp of air that would rival a stamped-on bagpipe, he dived into the cold water with only
the lightest of splashes.
Thick sinewy muscles propelled him and his foamy wake quickly faded as he ploughed
through the water with ease. To watch the man behave in a manner of the salmon that
inhabit the loch was a sight to see... a sight to see.
Within moments, the tall man stood on the pebbled beach and with blue eyes of the clearest
mountain stream, he took in the gawping sassenach before him. The breeze slowed as we
waited for time to prompt the next comment.
Nibbling my bottom lip and attempting a feeble smile, I snatched the opportunity to give
utterence to the comment I'd overheard in the tavern the night before. I took it the way the
osprey had grasped the scaly loch-dweller forgotten.
"Erm, happy birthday Mr. McGordi" I mumbled and jammed my hand into the front-pocket
of my cagoule. It wasn't much, but I'd heard he liked the stuff.
Gordi's face broke into a smile in a similar way the sun had tore into the glen earlier as he
eyed my meagre gift. One could suggest the beaming betrayed his need for what lay in my
trembling hand.
"Aye, she's a bonny-one" he whispered and thanked me with a slight bow. Up here, where
men are men and sheep are nervous, gratitude is difficult to display when you're commando
under the kilt.
I write this from the warmth of the tavern now and the words cause to me smile and shake
my head in wonder. I mean, what on earth would a solitary man living on an island want with
duct tape?
Happy Birthday, big fella.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.