While it was doing the raining and raining bit, I was doing the painting and painting bit. Chris came to help me, but was so  depressed at the thought of returning to work when he feels as if he’s not had a Proper Summer Holiday, that I tactfully suggested he might want to pop back to Falkirk and keep an eye on The Three Stooges aka the kids. Chris likes his summer hols to consist of getting up late, computer noodling in his dressing gown with kitty stretched out on knee, a little light housework and then make something tasty for tea, while listening to Radio Four.

These summer hols have consisted of car fixing, painting and wallpapering, and clearing up after The Three Stooges who took the opportunity to use up all the bath towels, leave dishes in odd places, and generally make life tricky for a dad on holiday.

Once I got Chris out of the way, painting progressed a little easier, and I’m delighted to tell you all that George St is pretty much done. Photos to follow.

My brother Olly and his wife Mary came to Millport for a few days, which was lots of fun. They had never been before, and after the first day ,which was pretty wet, the sun obligingly came out, the sea sparkled prettily, and we were able to walk over the hill to Fintry Bay, and up to the Glaidstone in blazing sunshine. It was great to see Olly, who is a Top Bro, and finally get out in some sunshine. Mary was a little disappointed not to see any basking sharks- next time, Mary. I promise I’ll lay ‘em on for you.

The flat has been very busy with renters, which has been jolly hard work. I seem to spend a lot of time in Pam’s shed, where the washing machine is located, and every Saturday of the summer has been a mad whirl of cleaning and bed making, followed by hanging about waiting for guests to arrive. Having the two flats to clean and make up beds in has been trickier than I imagined- luckily nobody has appeared at exactly the same time, but it’s been a near thing! Last Saturday both the televisions seemed mysteriously to be broken, but after a frantic phone call to Chris I realised that they had both been turned to DVD … more than my tenuous grasp on technology could cope with, apparently. I’ve also had some quite mucky renters this year, -no names no pack drill!! It’s a struggle to get everything pristine and tidy if the cooker has been left thick with grease, or there are big tomato sauce stains on the couch……

Finally though, it was Creche Ladies weekend. Due to unforeseen circumstances, only Irene and Lesley were able to attend this year, but we still had a hilarious two days, and enjoyed some serious jigsawing. This year I’d chosen a delightful jigsaw depicting Charles And Diana’s wedding, purchased from the charity shop for £1.50. and cheap at the price we thought… until we realised there was one bit missing. Charles and Di were bloomin’ hard to put together- in jigsaw form as in life, eh? Lesley quickly became frustrated with our lack of progress, and started calling them the Flouncy F****r and the Big Eared B******d. They seemed immune to her threats, and smiled demurely at her.

Eventually though we got them pieced together- thank god, we could never have looked Linda in the eye if we’d failed- and celebrated by some coffee and cake in the Dancing Midge. Then Lesley kindly offered to do some ironing, bless her cotton socks, and finally we headed for home in more blazing sunshine…

Country and Western Weekend is this weekend, so I’m off again, to let two lots of renters in . I’m sure they will enjoy all the shootin’, gun totin’ and Yee Ha- ing, though I suspect most of the residents groan a little to themselves and look forward to a bit of peace and quiet!

After Scott died, Jamie spent several agonised days trying to work out if he should still go. Scott’s mum, bless her cotton socks, told Jamie she thought he should still go, and to please send her a postcard. She felt Scott would have wanted him to go, indeed he had told Jamie in the weeks leading up to his death that he should. Then she told me that Jamie had been a loyal and steadfast friend to Scott, and she wanted him to have Scott’s watch.There haven’t been many occasions when I felt more proud of my son.

So I saw Jamie go with a fair amount of dread, as he still seemed so depressed, but I hoped it might give him some reason to get out of bed in the morning (or what passes for morning in Ibiza..) if he actually had to go and make enough money that day to feed himself.

This year required fewer cash hand outs from the Bank of Mum and Dad.. but it still needed a few! He managed to last just over two months, before deciding that it was time to come home to Mumsy, and since then he has applied for college, is looking for a job, and used every towel in the house.

Welcome home, my son.

George Street is coming on finally, and one room is pretty much finished, bar it’s coat of gloss. I was down at the weekend, seeing in two lots of renters- one in Jane’s mum’s house, and one in Crawford Street. Which was bloomin’ hard work and required a lot of scurrying between all the flats balancing towels and sheets on my head. One lot arriving at twelve- towels needed, how many beds though? One lot arriving at three, no towels, but move the futon into the bedroom….

Anyway, after I’d got everybody settled in comfortably I spent a lovely evening filling in the gaps round the window in George St., while listening to Radio Four. (I’m worried about Pip in the Archers by the way. Jude clearly doesn’t want to go travelling with her, can’t she tell???) After several conversations with Chris ,where we discovered that we were talking at cross purposes, (actually this is something we do quite a lot….) we have settled on calling one room “The sunny room” and the other one “The cave”. I hope that once we have papered the cave it won’t be quite so dingy- it gets scant sunlight due to the huge clump of trees in front of the flat, and it’s northerly aspect.

There is a disused church just along the road. It’s been for sale for ages, with not much interest, and meanwhile it’s quietly crumbling into a ruin. Last month as we walked by, Chris spotted a quite sizable clump of stained glass from one of the windows, lying in the long grass. Unable to resist, he brought it home, and it’s now balanced in Sunny room fireplace. with a candle behind it on a dusk summer’s evening, the effect is  really quite amazing.

While Chris was down last week, a woman appeared at the door. She was well into her eighties, and accompanied by her daughter. She and her family used to own the flat in the nineteen forties, and used it as a holiday flat. She was astonished to find her own family name- Mullen- still on the door, and Chris explained that we had been unable to get our own name plate to stick on- it just kept falling off. So we’d just left the old one on.

She remembered the stencilled frieze in the hall, and was also able to tell us what the odd recess thing in The Cave is. Apparently there was an odd “built in cot bed ” as she described it, and the recess housed the foot of it. It may have pulled out, or swung down – she couldn’t exactly remember, but that’s what it was, anyway. She also told us that when they used the flat, it’s only toilet was right down the end of the garden- the loo on the stairs was built by her dad,  because they all complained it was so far to go for a wee at night! What a luxury that must have been when he’d built it- you only had to go out onto the close to answer nature’s call!!

After a lot of thought we have decided to get the phone laid on in George St. Although I get a reasonable  mobile signal  in the flat, it’s not brilliant and tends to fail just when you get to the interesting point in the conversation. As well as phone, we get a broadband connection too, and I hope this isn’t the slippery slope that will lead to us all being on the internet all the time. I quite like being a bit inaccessible, to be honest…but I also worry that Jack might need to call me and not be able to because he had no money on his phone.

At the moment Chris and I are like ships that pass in the night. We can rarely get to Millport at the same time due to work schedules, and we are also wary of Jack being left by himself. It’s not much better with Jamie there. I tell Jamie to keep an eye on Jack, tell Jack to keep an eye on Jamie, and whisper to the cats to watch everybody carefully…so perhaps the phone might help keep track of who is in/ out/ having a wild party/ in police custody…..

Here are a few photos, if Word Press will let me….

I don’t really belive in heaven, but if I did, I quite like to picture Mum and Win, floating gently through the cosmos, holding hands, with their Hotta Extra Wide Fit shoes trailing gently behind them. Win is probably complaining about the price of a scone and jam in Heaven ,while Mum is gently telling her not to worry, they’re on their holidays , aren’t they? They are now joined by Scott, who is almost certainly bemoaning the lack of fit lassies and Buckfast. I like to think of them floating away , Scott in the middle, holding an old hand in each of his.

I hope they look after him.

My heart is with Scott’s family.

Now if things had gone according to plan ,this post would have been entitled “Paris, bebe, oui !!”as that was the original destination for the Boyle’s first family holiday for six years. But serious doubts about the security of my job, led me to be a tad reluctant to spend money I don’t have. So London it was.

A family holiday, really, has to have all the members of said family there, which was a feat requiring the negociating skills of Mo Mowlam and an endless supply of possible dates. Finally, we managed to slot a five day break in between exams, Ibiza trips, and school. ( Jack selflessly offered to miss some school, but I declined his kind offer.) I can’t be the only parent of teens and almost adults(allegedly..) to find it’s near impossible to spend some real family time together, and I was determined this was going to be our opportunity.

Next,the train strike threatened to put paid to the trip, and Chris and I spent an anxious week watching the news and wondering if we could do it by camper van instead.

But finally we were ready, bags were packed, the kitties were in the safe hands of Carly..well.. I say safe hands.. and we were ready to go.

Mhairi, engineering and architecture student extraordiaire, wanted to see St Paul’s Cathedral, and the Sir John Soane museum, Jack wanted to go to Camden Market, Chris was happy to go anywhere, and Jamie is happy so long as there are frequent stops for liquid refreshment of the type seved in a pint glass. I wanted to see my friend Jill, who was going at the same time for a couple of days.

When my aunty Win died just a few months after mum, she left a house in London full of clutter. For many years she avoided visitors to the house, and when we arrived to clear it, we saw why. Years of careful “make do and mend” seem to have spiralled into something rather different, and there were two rooms of her thirties semi where we couldn’t actually open the doors . Jill, who was the daughter of her cousin, and I, the daughter of Win’s oldest friend met for the first time amongst bags and bags of carefully saved items, the use of which we were unable to guess. In mounting bewilderment, we began to sift through it all and to get a glimpse of Win’s life as it had been for the last few years. And in doing so, we forged a bond of real friendship.

It took several visits, lots of help from my brother and his wife, and seven skips to empty Win’s house, and one of the best bits of it was sitting in the garden with Jill, her husband Necip and their two kids chewing the fat. We went back to the hotel every night filthy, exhausted, but glad to be doing the final service we could for Win.

The bits of jewellery we found all got gathered up together, and dropped off at the lawyers, the tiny and testy Mr Withers. He assured us there was no hurry to collect it as he had a very large vault to store it in, but now, after almost exactly two years, it seemed the time to fetch it.

Jill’s son Hal was celebrating his birthday on the Thursday of our holiday, so the collection of the gems was left to me. Chris and I strolled along to the laywer’s office. Mr Withers gestured towards a huge and untidy carrier bag on the floor.

“That’s all of it, I hope you don’t want the inventory for it? Hmmnn?”

I agreed I didn’t, and Chris and I lugged it all back to the hotel, stuck it in a back pack. As Jill was the only beneficiary who was actually a blood relative of Win’s, my brother Olly and I felt she should really have the jewellery. God knows what my sister thought, as she has not communicated with any of us for several years, but that’s another tale..

Jamie gallantly offered to carry the backpack full of swag through the streets of London. Thursday was St Paul’s- I was very brave and went up to the Whispering Gallery. Then we strolled along the embankment, and took in the atmosphere, and finally met Jill and family in Starbucks. I gave her the swag bag, which she received dubiously. It really looks like a lot of crap, to be honest, unless you have a thing for clip on pearl earrings. And neither Jill or I do.

On the way back to the hotel, on the tube, I started to think about Mum and Win. They met through work, where they were both trainee accountants, before the war. Mum married, had three kids, moved to Scotland, but every year she would bring us down to London for a wee holiday. She told me years later that she was aware that although our rural upbringing had advantages, she felt it was vital that we saw a different kind of living too. City living, with all it’s rich diversity, it’s hustle and bustle, was important too. And every year, Win was part of that holiday. It was Win who introduced me to the Geffrye Museum, the Museum Of Childhood, my first ballet..

It was a brilliant holiday. The kids spent more time together than they have for months, and apart from Jack’s Boat Trip Strop (fifty minutes gliding down the canal between Little Venice and Camden Market with a glum teen is not to be recommended- although at least I wasn’t sitting beside him..) they were all remarkably good natured. Win and Mum would have been proud of them.

As a final foot note, Jack insisted on buying a bowler hat and a silver topped cane in Camden Market. I am unsure that the good people of Camelon or Tamfourhill are ready for this picure of sartorial elegance, and Jack may have to leave the area a sight more speedily than he arrived. If you should see a lanky teen in a bowler hat rushing past your door, do give him shelter, I beg of you.

As well as trying to finish off George St, I need to cast a critical eye over Crawford St to see what needs to be done before the next lot of renters come in and cast their critical eye over my little piece of heaven. I had a hilarious comment left in my book by the eight year old daughter of the New Year renters, by the way. She thought the bed  “very comftabel..” but also announced that” Another bathfroom would be good”

Yes, Maisie, that would be good, you’re absolutely right. Now, where could I put it, do you think??

Not much progress had been made on George St for quite a few weeks before Christmas, and of course no progress at all was made between Christmas and New Year. But true to their word, both electrician and plasterer/ tiler had gone in straight after the holidays and done quite a lot. We now have..(dramatic pause..) lights that switch on and off! And floor tiles in hall ,bathroom and kitchen area! Yes, we do!!

We also have two nice second hand arm chairs. As we strolled down to the chippy on our arrival on Friday night, I noticed quite a large pile of furniture out on the pavement. a small hand written note, weighted down with a stone from the beach, proclaimed that it was all “Free To Good Home”. I was immediately drawn to the two chairs, and on our way back, I insisted that Chris should carry one home. I carried the fish and chips, and Chris rushed back for the second chair, as there were already a small crowd of locals eying the stuff up. Two ladies were carefully carrying a gate legged table away, but I didn’t want it anyway, which was just as well, as I’ve been known to trip old ladies up in Asda to get to the reduced pile of food.I’m not proud of it- I just can’t help myself.

This weekend Chris and I decided to try and put up the kitchen units, which we had bought from Ikea after Christmas. No expense spared, I tell you. These were the cheapest units that Ikea does, cheapest handles, cheapest work top. I wanted black gleaming granite, to fulfill a fantasy which sees Phil Spencer from Location, Location, bursting into my flat, declaring he can’t resist my charms any longer, and ..well. Suffice to say that the Spaghetti Hoops which I’m cooking up on the two ring hob burn a bit.

Chris however suggested that we should just go with bog standard white, and sadly I agreed. I learned recently that Phil Spencer’s wife is Australian, and I feel this gives her a slight advantage over me. I bet she’s not half a stone oh all right, a stone heavier than she was before Christmas.

So, we now had a flat full of boxes marked Fluckit, or something along those lines, and some awfy nifty red wall panels to act as a splash back. As we now have power to the flat, I was able to put the radio on and a little heater, and in no time at all Chris and I had constructed the first unit. We had constructed it wrongly, as it turned out, but it was constructed. It was a moments work for Chris to rip it apart again, thereby damaging the back panel. Hurrah!

Ikea furniture is a doddle once you follow some simple rules, like checking which way round the bits go, counting all the screws before you start, and possibly paying somebody else to do it for you. But adversity is my middle name, not Lucy, so I set to with my screwdriver, and while Chris  ripped the old  unit off the wall, I got the two base units and two wall cupboards put together, while displaying a first class builder’s bum to anybody that might have looked in the window. The plumber came in and discussed the final placing of the pipes, while politely admiring my base units, and Chris and I set off home feeling a good weekend’s work had been done.

I have booked a week off  work at the end of February to go down and shampoo the carpets in Crawford St, and generally tidy and clean everything for the new season of renters. Alas, I don’t think another bathfroom is on the agenda, but I can try to make the existing one look as nice as I can. I feel pleasantly excited at the thought of another season of happy holiday makers.

See you next month!

I’m unsure which famous artiste sang that particular song- maybe some helpful blogger- follower will tell me. However, we have had a couple of celebration times (woo hoo!) in Boyle Bungalow lately, and I just thought I’d bore you all witless by telling you all about them. Ready? Sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin..

Celebration One was Thanksgiving. I don’t usually celebrate it, but Carly(Jamie’s ex but she’s still part of the family..don’t ask.. just don’t..) usually spends Christmas with us. This year, however, she is going to see her dad in Canada for Christmas, so we decided to do a nice Thanksgiving dinner with her instead. I spent several days trying to fix a date everybody could manage (So the Thurs is good for you? But not the Friday? And I can’t do Wednesday..) and fix the menu ( Mashed potatoes AND roast? ) and another few hours trying to thread popcorn on strings to decorate… and then finally about two hours of perplexed internet  searching to find out what the hell was the deal with the candied yams.

Because candied yams, my leetle chums, are sweet potatoes, cooked in brown sugary water, sprinkled with more brown sugar and butter, and then you put marshmallows all over the top! I wondered for a minute whether I might have got two pages of the internet stuck together somehow, and got half of another recipe in there…but eventually I decided that I could not going to my grave without tasting candied yams, so I made ‘em anyway.

We also had spicy butternut squash soup, followed by turkey, gravy, roast potatoes, cranberries, mashed potatoes, vegetables, stuffing, pigs in blankets, and bread sauce. Then apple pie (home made) and three kinds of Ben and Jerry ice cream. Jamie and Jack were two big feartie buggers, and refused the candied yams, but everybody else thought they were strangely right with a bit of turkey and cranberry.

Carly has now left on a jet plane and doesn’t know when she’ll be back again, to coin a song. Hope she has a lovely snowy time.

Next in the celebrations was (ahem) my fiftieth. Yes, I know I don’t look a day over forty nine. It is also my workmate Kellie’s 21st in a few weeks so we decided to go the whole hog and have a joint celebration. Kellie had her heart set on a pink limo, so off we set on, the foggiest night of the year, with our glass of bubbly in one hand and our sparkly tiaras in the other for an hour’s  drive.  After about five minutes of whooping we all got a bit fed up with that, and it was far too cold to open the window and whoop out to passing strangers. So we had some more bubbly, although privately  I would have welcomed a nice cup of tea, and started talking about work. Then Lesley, who regular blog readers will recall is not the best of travellers, felt a bit sick. The rest of the journey was spent with Lesley gazing fixedly out of the front window assuring the rest of us that she would be fine, and the rest of us wondering quietly what the limo driver would do if she heaved  up in the champagne bucket.

Once back at the house, Jamie had set up a pal’s “Sing Star” game for us- a bit like Karaoke for the Playstation.  Lesley had got some colour back into her cheeks by then, and she and I gamely launched into a bit of Tina Turner, followed by Nickleback. Kellie had a shot at Natalie Imbruglia, and Irene insisted she was too shy.

A lot of the songs were fairly recent, and Lesley and I agreed that the maufacturers were missing a trick by not bringing out a “Cheesy Weegie Wedding” set. You could have a bit of Sidney Devine, some Jim Reeves, and Donald Where’s Your Troosers, and you would be fighting middle aged  Glaswegian woman back from the shelves. Lesley also voted for “Paper Roses”as that always seemed to be a favourite at any wedding, usually preceded by her uncle getting very drunk and shouting “Wan Singer, Wan song” as he fell up the stairs of the stage. Ah, happy days indeed. My favourite at Weegie weddings was always  “memories… in the corner of yer MIND…..” or I had a work mate who always let rip with “The Barmaid At the Inn At Inverarie” (Oan the twenny fifth o’ JOOOON, I’ll be oan ma hunny MOOOON…”)

Another possibility for songs was a Cockerney  one- but since I know all the words to “My ole man’s a dustman”  I just did my best Pearly Queen impression anyway- no tape needed. I’m regretting it now though- my knees are killing me and it was either that or my Tina Turner that’s to blame.

The next day, Mhairi had told me to keep free- and refused to answer any more questions. She and Jack had got something planned , and all Jack would say was that I might scream. This worried me rather- white water rafting? Abseiling?? It turned out to be tickets to see Bill Bailey’s Remarkable Guide To the Orchestra, and readers -I did scream. It was in the Usher Hall and I loved every moment of it. Our seats were quite  high up which was a little scary, but the moment Bill walked out on the stage, we forgot all about that.  I managed to get the last train home, and now feel a little jaded after so many days of party food, cake and copious ammounts of wine.

Sparkling water tonight only- promise.

Hopefully in my next blog there will be some Millport news- Happy Christmas to you all in the meantime.

No what has really held everything up is that as we stripped the flat back to the bare bones, more problems emerged, as they do. Now the ceiling is free from paper, the plaster is revealed as being dodgy as hell, and the whole lot needs to come off. I know the alternative is to be rustling up a gourmet dinner on the two ring hob, only to have a big dod of plaster fall upon my unsuspecting head. But I so wanted to get the floor tiled and a kitchen in! And now we’ll have to wait a bit longer.

The other big problem with property development in Millport is getting rid of the rubbish and masonry. Chris and I loaded up the car a few weekends ago with the rubbish from the cellar, soon to be renamed “the utility room” which will house a washing machine and a tumble drier. There were lots of tins of paint with one inch of twenty year old gloss paint in fetching shades of magenta or navy blue, and as we loaded them up I could hear, I swear, my dad tutting at the waste of it. Why, a bit of white spirit, a smidgen of parrifin and four hours of continual stirring, Jen , and you could use that paint for something! Don’t throw it out!! I ignored dad’s remonstrations from beyond the grave, and turned my attention to the bundle of canoe paddles , roller skates and frayed garden chairs.To finish off the  pile in the back of the car, we added the water heater from the kitchen. I was rather sorry to see it go ,as it sounded like a bugle when you turned the tap on and Chris and I had several games of “name that tune” on it. I suspect the new Redring under sink heater won’t have the same appeal.

As we drove to the tip the next day, I told Chris I could hear interesting glugging noises  coming from the back of the car. Chris informed me that it would be paint glugging around in the tins. I said I didn’t think so . When we arrived at the tip and opened the tailgate, about ten gallons of very smelly water cascaded out onto my feet.  I love being right, but not at the expense of my shoes.It was of course, the leaking water heater, and the car still smells like a sewer.

I love going to the tip. It gives me a sense of deep satisfaction to separate  my rubbish and bung it all in the correct bits, and drive off with an empty car and a smug feeling of having recyled where I can . I’d love it even more if the nearest tip to us in Millport wasn’t forty five minutes and a ferry trip away, outside Largs.

Anyway, that’s where we are this month- not really a lot further forward than last month, which is disappointing but inevitable.

On a personal level, and on a serious note I have spent many a sleepless night over Lanky Boy aka Jamie, worrying about his ability to cope with the terrible strain of watching his best friend die of cancer. It’s not something I ever had to do at his age, and the realisation that you are not invincible must hit hard. His friend ,of course, must be going through the worst nightmare of his life, and I can only guess what his parents and family must be feeling. Deep down I feel ashamed at the relief I feel that it’s not my son, not my baby , but at the same time I’m so sore and sick inside to see Jamie suffer. He’s been friends with the lad since the start of secondary school, and a more gentle, kinder soul you couldn’t meet. My thoughts go with him and his family.

Mhairi and I had fully intended to be in Millport and constructing our own window display by just after lunch. However the heady delights of Topshop, Gap, and the massive queue in Primark – all conspired to make our departure from Glasgow closer to teatime. I’m blaming Mhairi. She’ s all about the shopping that girl…

On arriving in Largs we realised that we had no candles to light the window, so we bought four from Yankee Candles at great expense, just before the shop closed. Then we jumped onto the ferry, which was quite busy, and arrived at Crawford St at about six. What to do for the window? we pondered. With typical and admirable quick thinking, Mhairi seized my collection of tiny china cats and mounted them on a pile of books, gathered round the tiny fireplace I had brought from home. On opening the candles we were mystified to see that none of them had any wicks. They were in fact, described  on the label as “wax tartlets” and if any sod knows what you’re suppposed to do with the flaming things, I would be interested to know. Wax tartlets???

Then we had something to eat, namely pizza, brought by Chris as he rushed from Glasgow to Millport to set up the lighting for not one but two  venues…

We had a little drink to keep out the cold. Then we meandered along the front, looking at people’s windows, and waiting for the fireworks to start. After a few moments Mhairi made an observation. Our window, she announced, was crap. Other folk had clearly spent hours arranging objects, getting the lighting exactly right, and composing poems. Yes, you heard me..poems.

Our favourites were as follows- the Ritz Cafe had modelled itself on a wartime theme, complete with Vera Lynn outfits and a swing band. Fantastic.

“Miscellany” had done a Ann Winters(instead of Ann Summers) theme, complete with giant bloomers and real live model in the window.

The Newton Bar apparently had pipers on the roof, but by the time we got that far along, after the excellent firework display, it had got quite wet and slippy and they were just climbing down. We got a lovely view of them…

But the one we liked the best was private house that had made itself into a Post Office, complete with giant postcards, supposed to be from various celebrities..very amusing!

We’d hoped to join in the Open Day on Little Cumbrae on Sunday. There were supposed to be regular boat convoys taking interested parties, plus of course the devotees of Swami Ramdev, over to the island, and I was really excited at the thought of visiting for the first time.Unfortunately, there was an air of chaos on the pier as we strolled down. Large groups of frustrated and exhausted visitors had been waiting since 6am to get a boat over, to no avail.The police were in attendance, trying to move people onto buses and out of the area, as it was clear that there were simply not enough boats available. The S1 community website today is full of stories of elderly, chilly people trying to board a small “rib” boat in choppy waters, and the Fire Brigade had to assist in getting people back to the pier.

Disappointed  but not really surprised- the arrangements for the Open Day had always seemed a bit vague and ill thought out-  we went for lunch in the Garrison and then for a brisk walk. I am a great believer in a brisk walk to negate the effects of several fish suppers, pizza, full fat lattes etc. Alas my stomach has not heard of these benefits, and continues to spread out towards my knees at an alarming rate.

In the chip shop that night- I just can’t think why I’m not losing any weight- I met an Indian lady who had managed to get over to Wee Cumbrae. She announced that the event was poorly organised, and the Wee Cumbrae side was even more chaotic than the Millport side. Sensibly( to my mind) she obviously took the Swami Ramdev rule of “eat only what has fallen to the ground” with a large pinch of salt and was ordering up two portions of chips and curry sauce to fortify her on the long road home to Derby. I hope she made it OK.

And so the weekend was over. Millport can breathe a quiet sigh of relief as the winter ferry timetable comes into force, the holiday makers depart, and the local population shrinks back comfortably to it’s habitual 1500 residents. Cafes close their doors, summer takings are counted, and this landlady looks back over a successful season.

Roll on next summer….

My main blog on this years Country and Western is over on Island Blogging, but there were so many good pictures, I thought I’d just do another one here..

Chris and Mhairi  were both in attendance accompanied by a motley assortment of red Indians, cowboys, and ..well, goodness knows what some people were. Gemma and Mhairi went down on Thurs to give Gemma some time to enjoy traditional Millport delights, such as cycling round the island, posing on Crocodile Rock, and sitting in the Ritz cafe checking out the local talent. They were lucky to get a dry day on the Friday, and enjoyed themselves enormously.( Not as much as Mama and her bunch of creche ladies last weekend,though..!!) Half way round the island both girls recalled that they hadn’t been on a bike for quite a number of years. This might have helped them with an authentic Cowboy bow legged swagger, if they were being Cowboys this year, but they had opted for dressing up as Indians instead, so it didnae.

Many thanks to Margaret Hughes for her kindness in ensuring that Mhairi and Gemma met the locals and were fully integrated into the community. Unable to remember Mhairi’s name ,she just hollered”BOYLE!!” till she turned round. Margaret insists she recognised Mhairi since she looks like me- now, I’m short ,buxom and dark with hairy legs, and Mhairi is tall, gorgeous and blonde, but there must be some indefinable “Boyle-ness” going on there. Anyway, Mhairi and Gemma quickly were introduced to lots of young Millportians, so thanks to everybody for making them feel so welcome. It’s one of the things I love about Millport, perhaps stemming from the long years of tourist trade, perhaps the genial nature of the community, but everybody who has visited it comments on the friendly attitude of all the people they meet.

The parade, line dancing and live music seemed to all go really well, but Mhairi and Chris both felt it was quieter on the actual streets. I was surprised to hear this as I had loads of accomodation enquiries-any number of groups of (mostly) middle aged ladies seemed hell bent on getting to Millport and doing some serious stomping to” Achy Breaky Heart” . All the hotels and Guest houses seemed to be full too.  So I’m guessing that the wind and rain kept most of the festivities indoors this year.It would be interesting to know if the pubs and cafes had big takings over the weekend.

The marquee was full to capacity of ladies taking their line dancing very seriously, so Mhairi and Mates decided to give that a miss. Instead they got themselves into their Indaian outfits and hit the pubs, and a jolly good time was had by all.