A Veterinary Journal by Claire Poole
Chapter 1
Page 7
Chapter 1
Sunday 4th January
Monday 5th January
Thursday 8th January
Thursday 14th January
Thursday 21st January
Monday 25th January
Tuesday 26th January
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Monday 25th January
Our young nephew Tom and his parents are staying for a few days. After hearing the tales of our fun in the snow earlier this month, he is desperate to go sledging, but Clayfern and surrounds so far remain untouched by the forecasted snow showers. In an extravagant mood, I have persuaded Linda to work today, so we are all going to find the snow in Glen Shee – one of the main Scottish ski centres; only an hour and a half from our doorstep. As the road is rather tortuous, we encourage our visitors to take travel sickness tablets before setting off. Soon we are travelling through flurries of snow and the countryside is blanketed in white. Tom is impressed to see Christmas trees in their natural habitat - we suspect he thought they came from the supermarket. Eventually, the ski tows and chair lifts of the ski centre hove into view and we enter the car park in near blizzard conditions. The family piles out grabbing assorted sledges from the boot.
Over the years, Jay and I have built up a collection - there are the two wooden sledges; one tall and elegant, the other low and sporty; the utilitarian red plastic variety and the piece de resistance – the ‘mini sledge’ spotted on a trip to Norway. It resembles a large plastic shovel blade with a short handle. The idea is to sit on the blade with the handle between the legs. The legs are then lifted off the ground and away you go. It is reminiscent of the tin trays we used as children - very fast with no steering whatsoever. The cautious Tom descends sedately on the big wooden sledge while the adults hurtle downhill on the ‘Norwegian shovel’. Eventually everyone is soaked, glowing and exhausted. A quiet evening in front of the fire would be sensible, but – tonight is an important date in the Scottish calendar – Burns night, in honour of our national poet – and we are going to a Burns supper and ceilidh. The supper consists of haggis, neeps and tatties (swedes and potatoes to Sassenachs), giving plenty scope for teasing the rather gullible Tom. In time, he will learn the truth about haggis, but for now, he will no doubt spend the last few days of his holiday searching the hills in vain for a glimpse of the elusive shaggy creature doomed to run round hills forever in the same direction – due to the haggis legs being shorter on one side than the other!
The ceilidh is a real success. The many jigs and dances are not hard to follow, and the frantic regrouping of the dancers after tricky manoeuvres adds to the general hilarity of the occasion. Tom is completely overawed with the elephantine stomping and exuberant hooching of his strange Scottish relatives.
Coming up the cottage path, a fox screams in the woods – it is time for them to seek mates for the breeding season, and the bloodcurdling shrieks are common at this time of year. We tell Tom that he is privileged to hear such a sound - the rarely heard mating call of the local Clayfern haggis. We may have pushed our luck too far, the exhausted little boy flashes a withering glance before heading indoors and straight for his warm bed.
Copyright Claire Poole 2005
