Hebridean adventure 5

From inside our compact little travelling home we peep out of our tinted windows at the world outside. We have just made ourselves some toasties for lunch as we relax and reminisce on our short stay in the Outer Hebrides. We have made a decision and booked a return ferry from Castlebay on Barra back to Oban on the mainland, an early sailing the following morning which should enable us to drive from there and be home the same day. The reason for us leaving now is simple and it is primarily about the weather. We always knew this would be the main factor determining our return date and that it would be the one thing we could never predict. We did think that we would be cycling more often, perhaps battling the wind, but it turned out that with the wind comes rain, often as heavy squalls, these being regular but unpredictable. In the end this put us off cycling completely and even walking any distance risked a soaking so we have done very little of what we might have expected to do.

There have been, however, a load of big positives to our adventure. We have explored countless stunning beaches with views across the ocean or towards off-lying islands and rocky promontories. We also take away a real appreciation of what life here is like today and have an insight into what it must have been like in the past too. Little things have caught our eyes. Wheelie bins are not safe here unless tied down securely! Garden trampolines, the things that are notorious for flying away in the slightest wind, are rare here but we did spot one, presumably anchored down with some mighty big pegs. The houses are generally built low, close to the ground, and are widely spaced out rather than being grouped into compact villages. This perhaps mirrors the position of the croft houses which preceded them.

Driving on the narrow single track roads is very much a part of the experience. Despite the roads using the same numbering system as the rest of the UK an 'A' road is just as likely to be single track as a 'B' road. Driving requires courtesy, looking ahead to see if there is another car coming then indicating to show you are moving into the next passing place so they can come forward. The wave by both drivers as you pass each other is a given.

There are relatively few shops here but most seem to be owned and run by the local community. Those that do exist, however, are always welcoming with staff willing to  pause for a chat.

Many of the campsites are located on the machair, sand dunes grown over with a mix of vegetation which have always provided grazing for the crofters' sheep and cattle. The pitches are often uneven so finding a level spot is not easy and some care is needed to avoid spinning wheels. Most sites seemed to be closing at the end of September since beyond this visitor numbers will fall off.

For us though, a plan for the homeward journey now being in place, we need a camp spot close enough to the ferry terminal so we don't miss the sailing in the morning. We then get a text message telling us that the ferry we have booked is going to leave an hour earlier, now at six o' clock in the morning, so this becomes even more important. This is due to strong winds forecast for later in the day, so they should not affect us, but the ship has to return to the safety of Castlebay on Barra on the same day.

One final island on our list is Vatersay, hanging off the south end of Barra by another short causeway, so this is where we end up, on a narrow strip of the Machair midway between east and west facing beaches. We thought we might have the spot to ourselves but two other vans drove up later, one of which promptly lit a fire to cook some sausages, despite the rules forbidding fires. [But I guess we did get our own back with the noise of our early departure the next day.]

We had a pair of beautiful beaches to visit this time, one of which even enticed Kate in for a swim. We retired to bed early and slept well enough but four in the morning is never going to be a good time to get up. And what we then discovered was that driving on the tiny single track roads in total darkness is a whole new experience, especially when the sheep bedded down on the road are still sleeping. Once on the ferry, a much larger one for this journey, most of the passengers crashed out wherever they could and tried to catch up on their sleep. We on the other hand started with some breakfast, found a good spot from which we could watch the dawn arrive then had fun trying to identify the Scottish mountains as they came into view.

We passed close by the Isle of Lismore which once again brought back memories of my singing with the campsite manager on Lewis. Music in one form or another is clearly an important part of the lives of many islanders and I am delighted to think that I participated in this.

Our drive home was uneventful, although we did pick up a pair of hitchhikers on the way, a young Czech couple carrying a mass of luggage so they could camp each night. And we later discovered that our bed at home does not shake and rattle when the wind outside blows! This, along with a number of other things, will take us days to re-acclimatise to. We also discovered that everything in the garden seemed to have been growing at great speed whilst we were away, testimony to the wet weather here too. All that remains now is to give the van a good wash to try to remove all the salt and sand that has stuck to the paintwork during our time away.

So what about the bikes, how did they fair perched on the rack behind us whilst being rained upon daily and then doused in sea spray? Time will tell for sure but it seems that the bike cover, the thing continuously noisily flapping about in the wind and needing extra cords wrapped around it to keep it from flying away or ripping into shreds, largely did its job and kept the bikes dry. Whilst away we saw many other vehicles with bike racks on the back but none seemed to be flapping as much as ours so maybe we need to rethink the cover a little. 

Hebridean adventure 4

Looking ahead to the next few days the weather forecast was not encouraging. The wind was guaranteed, still coming from the south-east, but the rain was also going to be a given, heavy showers with brief interludes seemed to be the pattern, based on previous days. After a night in the relative comfort of a proper campsite we decided to book another, this time on Benbecula, the next island in the chain but this being only a relatively short drive we decided to detour on a round trip of North Uist, to experience as much of the island as it could give us. Which was how we ended up stopping to visit a woodland overlooking Loch Langais.

This woodland was planted some years ago as a community project and it is, uniquely, the only piece of woodland on the island. It clearly provides a home for a population of pixies, who have built little houses everywhere you look although on reflection some local schoolchildren might have had a hand in decorating the trees and the mossy ground beneath. The big story associated with this place is about an eight foot high bear called Hercules. Although brought up tame from his youth, some years ago he escaped from his handler and spent several weeks roaming the landscape around here, despite considerable efforts to capture him. He clearly had not been taught how to hunt because when he was finally recaptured he was very thin and desperately hungry. A large wooden commemorative statue stands in the woods today in memory of Hercules the bear.

We were also very impressed by the toadstool population which we could not resist taking pictures of as we walked around the woodland and as a special treat we watched a pair of eagles soaring above the trees whilst we stood gazing up at them from below. Most significantly for us was that once in the woodland we realised we had found a place that gave us complete shelter from the wind and that this had another unexpected benefit - it was quiet. Instead of having to shout at each other we found ourselves conversing normally again, for the first time in days.

At this point in our travels we made a decision to move on to Barra the next day, the last island in the chain. This would involve a short drive from Benbecula across a causeway, a drive down the length of South Uist, then across another causeway to Eriskay from where the ferry to Barra departs. Three different islands again but this time the wind had notched up to gale force and the rain was coming down sideways, continuously. The first causeway was relatively benign but on the crossing to Eriskay, a long straight section, there was spray breaking right across the road from the sea on one side. There was no alternative but to drive across this to get to the terminal despite the risk of our van being blown over but when we finally arrived at the terminal there was no ferry. All sailings were cancelled for the day due to the storm. The only campsite nearby was back on South Uist which meant a reverse crossing of the causeway. By this time the tide had gone down a little although we still got sprayed with salt water. Our adventure in the Outer Hebrides had become an exciting tussle with the first September gale. What better place to experience this than the windiest corner of Scotland.

The night that followed was noisy, rain hammering down on the roof in heavy bursts and the van was violently shaken about by the wind making sleeping difficult. Others in the campsite with taller vans (or giant motorhomes) might have feared for their safety, worrying about whether their home would be blown over, but at least this didn't concern us too much. We had tried to book another ferry for the next day but due to everybody's travel arrangements being disrupted only the evening sailing had room for us. We therefore arose slowly from our beds in the morning, packed up, visited the campsite cafe for a late breakfast coffee and cake then decided to move to the ferry terminal on the off chance that an earlier sailing might have a space. The wind had abated, rain showers still came in but the sea looked calmer and it was clear that the ferries were running to schedule once again.

We joined a queue and were told there was little chance of us getting on the midday sailing but once the ship had loaded, somehow there was a tiny space just big enough for us to fit in, crammed in tight behind a couple of big lorries. [In this picture our van looks like it's a toy.] Remarkably the sea was quite smooth, most of the big swell from the overnight storm had died down as we crossed the Sound of Barra at last.

We even had time to explore a little before driving to the north end of the island to a campsite close by yet another glorious beach. Just around the corner from us (to the right in this picture) is the airport, planes landing on the beach when it is not covered by the sea. On another walk from the campsite along the beach, this time avoiding the rain, we met a couple drawing artistic creations in the sand with a small grass rake and using sea-worn pebbles and other debris to decorate their works; temporary structures, since the next tide will inevitably wash it all away.

Out of all the Hebridean islands the one that appeals most to us is in fact Barra. If we were being honest then the reason for this is that it feels most like where we now live in Argyll. There are hills stretched right across the island, some of which are forested, and people live in houses which are closer together, in small communities, instead of being scattered widely across the landscape. Popping round to a neighbour's house for a cup of tea on Lewis could be a significant hike, especially when the wind is blowing hard. Neighbours on Barra don't have this problem. It also has a road which encircles the whole island, something we were hoping to do as a bike ride were the weather a bit kinder. We are delighted to have travelled the whole Hebridean island chain but thrilled to have arrived on Barra at last, as if this is where we always wanted to be.

Hebridean adventure 3

Although being somewhat disappointed at not making good use of the bikes strapped on the back of our van we had gradually become reconciled to the fact that the constant wind and the random heavy showers that came along with it might mean that the bikes would go home without ever being used. The distances between our overnight stops were not great, maybe only an hour or so of driving, so in some ways we felt we were cheating ourselves by moving on too quickly. Not that we were unimpressed by the landscape, the scenery, the incredible views and the challenges the roads themselves introduced us to. But nevertheless after consulting our maps we decided at this point that we would drive to Leverburgh, the departure point for ferries to North Uist, the next island in the chain. We did not, however, choose the most direct route there. Instead we had noticed a tiny single track coastal route down the east coast of Harris, with a 'seal watching point' along the way which seemed a reasonable place to stop for lunch. It was, in fact, a cliff top overlooking a sheltered bay which contained a small island used by the local seals for hauling themselves out. We were too far away to photograph them but through binoculars the large lumps of seal could be clearly seen.

Onward then to Leverburgh where we stocked up with food in the local shop before parking for the night in a spot right by the ferry terminal. We had booked a crossing for early the next morning, one of only three a day, but treated ourselves to a meal out before turning in for the night. Having a van in which we are self sufficient in everything does mean that we can stay almost anywhere.

The parking spot we had chosen was quite exposed so once again our van was buffeted about all night by the wind although after a quick downpour the rain did hold off for most of the night. We had an early start for the ferry and thankfully by this time the wind had reduced a little.

The crossing to Berneray is far from direct, reminding us a little of the narrow roads we had been driving on, bumpy but with many twists and turns. The changes of direction in this case were necessary due to the small islands and rocks that fill the Sound of Harris, many of these being hidden from view beneath the water.

Our ferry dodged from left to right following a chain of green and red navigation buoys until about an hour later we were approaching Berneray harbour under a clear blue sky. This is a very small island and almost immediately after driving off the ferry we crossed the long man-made causeway onto North Uist, three islands in one day... something of a record?

Once again we had chosen a campsite to aim for which was off the beaten track on a tiny promontory facing the Sound of Monach (named after the small cluster of off-lying islands) where there was a small bird sanctuary close to the shore. The wind was our constant companion as usual but this did not prevent us setting off on a three mile walk around the protected area. 

The coastline here is wild and beautiful although quite featureless, unless you count the heaps of large round pebbles and the piles of kelp ripped up from the seabed by recent storms. The smell from these was amazing. We were about half way along our walk when the rain started. It came in gradually, shooting at us sideways on with the strength of the wind and we had no choice but to battle on when the path turned straight into it. We were a little unprepared but our clothes soaked up the moisture nicely and when the going got tough our bodies generated their own warmth. We also had the comfort of knowing that the campsite had a drying room once we made it safely back. The walk is not something we would willingly repeat in such conditions but it refreshed us and left us with quite a buzz. And given that the reserve was a bird sanctuary, did we see many birds? We might have expected birds we normally associate with living by the sea but instead there were flocks of starlings, wheeling about in formation, as they do. They are in fact quite common here.

Hebridean adventure 2

Something of a strategy seemed to be needed as to where we might spend the coming night although at this point in our travels we barely had a plan beyond this. Somewhere, some time in the future we would arrive on Barra, the southernmost of the Hebridean islands, from where we would take a ferry back to the mainland, but we had nothing booked and no urgent need to be home at any point in the next few weeks. We had discovered that we enjoyed visiting remote beaches and most of these seemed to be located at the end of tiny single track roads, so after studying the map for a while we decided to head for the tiny crofting village of Cnip, simply because it met these requirements.

The beach here gave us even more delight, some amazing patterns across the sand caused by dark grains carried there in runoff from the surrounding land, although by this time the wind had arrived which, together with the odd shower of rain, meant we were spending less time outdoors than before. This turned out to be a memorable place and I refer back now to the earlier blog here where I explain why this particular place will always hold a particular good memory for me.

On our journey to this campsite we paused to inspect the standing stones at Callanish, a place where there are multiple stone rings, leading to immense speculation as to the purpose they served and the justification for the effort in raising them back in the days before humans had the mechanical devices we have today. The assumption that they are evidence of religious worship of some kind does not sit well with me but without their creators on hand to ask we will never be sure.

The Hebridean islands are known for their exposure to winds arriving from the west along with depressions which have crossed the North Atlantic pushed along by the jet stream. An easterly breeze is unusual and winds coming up from the south are also less common but they do bring warmth to this northerly outpost. What we now experienced were stronger and stronger winds coming from a south easterly direction. A run of such days followed, with the van being rattled and shaken during the night. The bikes stayed on their rack (although their rain cover needed re-securing many times) and our walks often ended with wet clothes and shoes when we were caught out by sudden downpours. Our strategy of driving to remote beaches continued, however, one of which, at a place called Hushinish (or Huisinis in Gaelic) took us along fourteen miles of a single track road barely wide enough for our van's wheels. Not that our van is particularly wide. Nothing like as wide as some of the many enormous motorhomes that were constantly passing us. It seemed to make little sense to bring such a vehicle here.

Sheep seemed to prefer grazing on the grass bordering the road whilst standing on it, as did several herds of Highland cattle, the ones with those enormous horns sticking out sideways just above their eyes. A tarmac road will absorb heat from the sun, which is perhaps why these animals behave this way, but they clearly are very used to big motorhomes passing by and will make little effort to move when they approach. This is an unexpected challenge to exploring in the Hebridean islands, but not one to be bragged about in case the tourists are discouraged from coming.

By this time the stock of food we carried with us was beginning to get a bit low so the community shop in the township of Tarbert seemed a good place to head for. We soon discovered, however, that Sunday closing is observed faithfully on both Lewis and Harris so instead we pressed on southwards until we reached the turnoff to Luskentyre (Losgaintir in Gaelic), another narrow single track road leading to yet another glorious beach. If ever there was a tourist hotspot then this might be it. The narrow road was littered with overnight parking spots and the road ended at an unmanaged parkup/campsite with very basic toilet facilities.

The beach here is bordered by massive boulders of Lewisian gneiss, rocks formed over three billion years ago and one of the oldest rocks still visible on the surface of the earth today. Such rocks underlie much of these islands and are quite stunning to see dotted about although I would guess that few visitors are motivated to come here for that reason.

Hebridean adventure 1

Like many of the things we do, very little planning had gone into this adventure apart from deciding on a date for departure and buying the ferry tickets. This left us with a vague plan for how we might get to Ullapool for the ferry crossing to Stornoway, a long drive from home, and with a 10:30 am ferry departure we knew we would need to stay the night somewhere close by in the town. But that was it. Once we had loaded the campervan, lashed the bikes onto the back, added a stock of food and water to keep us going for a few days, why not just hit the road northwards.

Glencoe seemed a reasonable place to stop for the first night, a campsite known as the Red Squirrel that we have used many times before. Heavy rain showers drummed on the van roof at intervals throughout the night but we slept well after a meal in the Clachaig Inn then carried on the next day to our Ullapool campground.

That evening we were treated to a magnificent sunset followed by a calm and peaceful night and the forecast for the next day was for light winds, something quite rare in these parts. As it turned out the ferry crossing was uneventful, across a calm sea and by the time we docked in Stornoway we had a plan, of sorts, for our first night in the Hebridean islands.

Our choice of camp spot was dictated by its distance from the Butt of Lewis, the northernmost point of the northernmost island which has a reputation for violent storms and crashing waves. A five mile bike ride seemed about right for us and what little wind there was blew us along quite easily. The return was also a piece of cake, thankfully, and a good chat with a local crofter ended the day nicely. The fact that the tiny site we had chosen offered nothing except an electric hook-up, which we didn't need, mattered little.

What we did get was perfect peace, not another vehicle in sight, and an interesting morning walk to the nearby beach. The only thing missing was the wind, something for which Lewis is famous, and we knew that we could not expect this to last forever.

Dawn came on day two, still with only gentle breezes, so we decided to explore another beach, this one being on the northern tip of the island of Great Bernera. The drive there gave us our first taste of minor roads here, twisty strips of tarmac which rose and fell with the landscape, although as yet we had not met any serious hills.

Once again we found a remarkable sandy beach, so good that Kate was tempted in for a swim, only to be greeted by a curious seal who was also looking for a bit of fun. Two days on the island with plenty of sunshine and light winds. It could not last, of course, and sure enough the forecast showed we could expect fresh winds coming up from the south for the next few days at least.

Hebridean adventure 0

The beach at Cnip (Kneep in English) stretches far away, pure clean sand with ripples left by the retreating sea and small puncture marks left by raindrops which fell earlier in the day. The ever present wind sweeps across the landscape keeping us cool but never too cold as it arrives from a southerly direction where a warmer climate rules.

We are on Lewis, the northernmost of the Outer Hebridean islands, camped for the second night of our latest holiday/adventure. The campsite lies amongst the dunes behind this vast beach and on arrival we find a notice in the window of the facilities building giving instructions to new arrivals. We call the telephone number provided and speak to a man whose name we later discover is Fin Morrison, this being a local name. His accent is strange to us, faintly Irish to our ears, but he tells us where to find an empty pitch for our campervan saying he'll be by later to collect payment. The site is quite spread out, grass covered sand with markers to ensure adequate spacing between pitches, and it is far from level so it takes us a while to find a spot where the van is not leaning too much.

We settle in and cook ourselves a meal as the wind whistles through the dunes then, just as we are tidying away, we notice a black saloon car has driven up close to us and an elderly gentleman emerges. His face is lined with age and his beard in need of a good trim but I guess (correctly) that he is Fin who I spoke with earlier. We open the door for him and begin to answer his questions as he writes out a receipt for the twenty pound overnight fee.

"Where are you from?" he asks. His reaction when we simply say "Argyll" is one of sadness for it is a place where the Gaelic language is rarely spoken, something that is clearly very important to him. We comment that we try to embrace the culture associated with the Gaelic language and I mention that I play in a band.

"Do you play fiddle?" he asks, so I confess to playing a concertina.  At this his eyes lit up and his interest seemed to spike. He wants to know more.

"What Scottish tunes do you play? Do you play waltzes?" He names a tune, which I don't recognise so I ask him to sing it for me. In hindsight this was a rather cheeky request but without hesitation he begins to sing the tune for me. Unfortunately I have to confess that I don't recognise it so he tries again, this time asking if I know Leaving Lismore. This one I know, of course, as it is part of the repertoire of the Fyne Thyme band.

At this point something amazing happens. We are parked on a remote windy campsite on the west coast of Lewis and suddenly I am singing a tune I know along with a local man who has come to our door to collect camping dues. Once started he continues singing, as do I, both parts of the tune, in perfect time and pitch until we reach the end. To him this is clearly better use of his time than collecting camping dues and for me I am filled with emotion as we come to an end. I thank him and he departs quickly, finally remembering what he came to do. I can only hope the song we shared has meant as much to him as it did to me. To think that I can join together with a local man and provide him with pleasure in this way leaves me thrilled and buzzing inside, a feeling that I take away with me on the rest of our journey through the islands.

Think like a bird

Sometimes a new idea just pops into one's head and it sits there brooding for a while until it is difficult to recall what prompted its arrival in the first place. So where did the idea of having a bird bath in our garden come from? On reflection it may have been something the AI algorithms on YouTube came up with and threw at us after we had been watching something completely different. Someone had set up a camera beside a shallow concrete bowl supported above the ground on a short pillar. The video and its associated commentary described the variety of behavioural traits demonstrated by our feathered friends which left us with the impression that a bird bath is a must have.

A little research gave us a set of requirements. The bath must be shallow, the water must be changed frequently to avoid spreading diseases, and ideally it should be kept cool, away from direct sunlight. Our garden pond is mostly too deep to meet these requirements - it is unlikely to serve the needs of a blackbird let alone a tiny bluetit. Many people would have rushed out immediately and bought a tailor-made bird bath and indeed once you start searching online it appears as if the world is full of them. But this is not our way of doing things. We like to think first about how we might construct something ourselves using stuff we have lying around that might satisfy the size, depth and strength requirements. This is called re-purposing.

Which led us to consider one of the first requirements, changing the water. At present we have a garden water butt which is filled automatically with rainwater diverted from the gutters of our shed roof. The butt itself has never needed topping up from elsewhere (rain is one of the features of our climate here) and any overflow is diverted again into a watering can placed on the ground below - convenient for use on the tomatoes in our polytunnel. So might this water follow a more tortuous route via a shallow bowl placed such that its surplus water flows into the watering can as before? This arrangement would ensure that the water in the bowl, our bird bath, would change each time it rained, which is quite often here. So there we have it, the beginnings of a design concept. Now we just have the small matter of  finding a suitable shallow but watertight container.

This is a moment for thinking outside the box. Too much research into bird baths gives us fixed ideas so instead we search high and low with our requirements in mind. An old steel dustbin lid comes to mind - right shape, size, everything - but today we all have plastic wheelie bins with hinged lids. Think again. What we do have are a number of storage boxes, many of which have shallow lids. Is there one tucked away somewhere that is not serving a useful purpose? It turns out that we do have such a thing, in reasonable condition and watertight. All it needs is a supporting post and some old bits of scrap wood to keep the lid at the correct angle. To divert the water butt overflow into this required some old guttering pieces and I already knew I had some of these lying about. A bit of thumping and banging and we had our bird bath.

So how do we tell the birds what it is for? Are they clever enough to seize the chance of a good clean up? Probably not, and being quite close to the back of the house they are likely to be cautious. So to encourage them to visit the area we add a little snack bar - a place for some tempting bird seeds.

This involved a few scraps of old wood and a some screws. Here is the finished article.

So where are the birds? We normally see them everywhere but suddenly they are gone, nowhere to be seen. We realise that a bird would think anything new is scary so it will take time, days or even weeks, before our latest assemblage of parts is going to be put to use. Rather than stand around all day waiting for the action to start we decide to fix up an old security camera so we can watch the action remotely. We now get notified whenever a spider crawls across the camera lens...but it's a start.

Nearly a week goes by before our patience is rewarded. A small but interested robin flies in for a peep, triggers the camera briefly before flying off again. Although curious he is far too cautious to feed, let alone bathe, but he does seem to be thinking about it.

A few more days pass with nothing on the camera except rain drops so I add a single fat ball to the feeder tray. Then suddenly, at around five in the morning, the big guys arrive. 

The gull takes a quick sip of water then jumps forward and grabs the fat ball which he carries back onto the steps so he can break it up and eat it. Close by, but keeping their distance, are two crows who lack the initiative to use the feeder themselves but they reckon that the gull will drop what he has if they pester him enough. Sadly for them this is not what happens. The gull stands his ground, breaking up the fat ball until he can swallow the last remaining lump. Then off he flies. The same gull returns later for some seed but is clearly unimpressed with the bath idea.

A few days later though and our Robin is back, the one bird who can out-think the whole bird community, storing away the location of food in his memory bank then seizing the moment to grab a snack when nobody is looking. As for the diverted water bird bath this is tested to its limit by torrential rain showers and we are pleased to see the structure still in place after Storm Floris lands on us. We are intrigued to see who will be the first to bathe there.

A Fine Time

A while ago I wrote here about my interest in playing music and how this had come about. Since moving from Carradale into a (slightly) bigger Scottish village I have teamed up with other players who share my enthusiasm and with whom I feel encouraged and emboldened to squeeze away at my concertina more often. This has taken part of my life in a new direction so I thought maybe it was time to record here where things have gone and what doors it has opened for me.

OK, so we are not talking here about fame and fortune working as a musician. But in Scotland we have a thing called a ceilidh (pronounced KAY-lee) which is a traditional social gathering, a lively event where people come together to celebrate, often with traditional Scottish folk music and dancing. Ideally the music comes live from musicians in a band playing together but this does not necessarily imply a professional performance of music and in the case of myself and those who I team up with this is certainly not the case. Our objective is simply to produce something which is sufficiently listenable to and rhythmic so as to generate enough enthusiasm for those in the room who might like to dance. There are a number of traditional set dances which are well known enough and these have tunes which are associated with them such that so long as we can play those particular melodies then there is a good chance that someone will rise from their seat and give it a go. If they are joined on their feet by the requisite number to make a 'set' then that is all we need. All the musicians have to do is to keep playing long enough at the right sort of speed until the dancers feel they have completed the dance. Some dances have a regular sequence of moves to be followed but other than this it is simply a matter of guesswork and intuition, the tunes being repeated to extend the dances if necessary. This might sound quite straightforward, and it is, although keeping time is not as easy as one might think as we have to listen to each other's playing at the same time as playing our own instruments. 

After one dance is finished it might be important to allow the dancers to have a rest (particularly if there is a more senior age profile) so the band might follow on with a slow number, something melodic with a nice harmony or perhaps a song, to fill in until the next dance. This gives us the chance to show off in a different way, to demonstrate musicianship on our own instruments with different arrangements of lesser known tunes. The band in which I now play, The Fyne Thyme Ceilidh Band, has fiddlers (some might call them violinists but when playing traditional music they become fiddlers), guitarists, a keyboard player, a drummer and, of course, my concertina. The noise we make when playing together is sufficient for a small venue although we do use some amplification to help us balance the sound better if there is likely to be a large crowd. And there is one other thing that our band tries to do and that is to invite younger players to join us, either to play along with us or to contribute their own music if they can. We hope that this is of benefit to them such that their confidence will grow and music will become an important part of their lives.

We all have favourite tunes - melodies that touch something hidden inside us that makes us feel good - and to a musician if a tune also falls easily to the fingers then this is an added bonus. But not too easy, or else the challenge of playing that tune is lost and the satisfaction of adding emphasis or 'feeling' becomes too simple.

Just recently our band's repertoire has spread slightly as we play some tunes from another part of the Celtic world, Brittany. The harmonies and the minor keys are interestingly different and it feels satisfying to diversify in this way. We discovered a french website devoted to those learning the diatonic accordion, something we might call a melodeon, but with two different notes on each button, much like my own instrument.

On the same website is a detailed explanation (in french) of how it is possible to know when and where to place one's fingers on a musical instrument without consciously thinking about it. All musicians need this trick, particularly when playing fast, so that the conscious thought process can get on with doing what it does best, putting expression into the music. It is all about constructing connections in the brain between hearing a particular sound and the placement of one's fingers to make that sound. Then if you are reading from written music, there is a further connection involving sight where the dots on the page are associated with particular notes and sequences thereof. All these sensations are reinforced by repetition until they are wired into memory and can be called upon quickly with no conscious thought. Some might think of this as 'finger memory' but it is really our brains that are doing it and in reality it is probably no different from riding a bike or learning to walk on two legs without having to think consciously about avoiding falling over.

Aside from memorising a set of tunes, playing with other musicians requires patience as well as being able to listen to and watch those alongside you. Clues taken from each other's body language is what makes us into a 'band' rather than simply a few people playing instruments at the same time. If I were to inadvertently speed up midway through tune I would need to be brought back into line with a glance from someone else or by seeing their foot stamping on the floor and I must also be prepared to make similar signs myself at times.

All of which needs to be ready for our next gig, coming up in a few weeks time, an eightieth birthday party for a local man. We have a mix of tunes on our set list, ones that are within our musical capabilities and which we have practiced together to improve our confidence. Will I be nervous? Of course I shall, but hopefully my brain will feed my fingers the right instructions without me having to worry about anything.