Ardross & Ullapool
Another great new village hall, we play for an appreciative crowd including my Mother-in-law and Auntie Jean who have both come up from the Black Isle. After the show We get a late pint in the hotel in Alness and meet a painter-decorator who used to be a session drummer in London with Leo Sayer (spelling?) amongst others.
Another late breakfast – 9a.m. Alasdair nane – before the mammoth, one – hour drive to Ullapool; gateway to Lewis. Alasdair has never been to Ullapool when not in transit either to or from his native island of Lewis so we had to anchor ourselves to the Seaforth bar for most of the day to ensure that he did not accidentally get on the boat out of habit.

The concert in the MacPhail Centre was excellent(of course) and after clearing up we returned to the Seaforth for at the stroke of midnight Alasdair was to turn into a twenty-one-year-old pumpkin. Luckily this event will involve no trauma for Alasdair as he has been twenty-one in America for some time now. But at least now it’s official! In fact, He will soon be thirty over there. At the Seaforth we imbibe alongside oodles of tourists, the Ullapool pipe band and Atilla the fish farmer who came all the way down from Kinlichbervie to see the gig. The bar band were great: The drummer sang and played the moothie and the bassist doubled up the guitar player’s solos with a kazoo. I fear that these subtle aspects of their craft were lost on the lusty dancing horde, itself a soup of feremones, locals, tourists, and alcohol. Yum yum. En route to the Hotel after closing time, we meet Rob’s daughter Jessie who was up from Yorkshire on Holiday: So all roads do lead to Ullapool.

Stirling
We all missed breakfast before embarking on the quest to spin out the three-hour drive to Stirling. Pat and Alasdair chose to do this by dining in Inverness while Rob, Alan and myself stopped en route both at the Corrieshalloch gorge and the falls of Rogie. The Tolbooth in Stirling is a great and busy venue housed in the old courthouse in the middle of Stirling. One of the Technical crew told us that when they cleared out the old cells during the conversion of the building, they found two skeletons left from bygone days…. when remand wasn’t just for Christmas. The building was indeed haunted until an exorcism was performed but one cannot help but think that perhaps the Tolbooth is not the same without its ghoulies. This is still Alasdair’s birthday but we are unable to celebrate properly as we make our way back to Edinburgh for the next day’s early flight and the next stop on our grand tour of the highlands and island – Exeter down in England.

Exeter
Sunday morning and we fly to Bristol whereupon we drive to Exeter. Exeter has always been a good place for us - indeed some of the live tracks on our most recent cd were recorded there. This time we are going as part of the Exeter festival with other such luminaries as Capercaillie and Capt. Beefheart’s magic band though unfortunately not on the same day as that would have been a great game of pool. One of the promoters, Steve Chilcott, is an old friend of the band who booked the Battlefield Band in 1979 at Manchester University when Pat was first in the band. Since then we have done numerous gigs for Steve around the southwest of England which have all been great.

When we arrive at Steve’s village – Stoke Canon just outside of Exeter – we immediately immerse ourselves in the local culture and take Steve and his wife, Dawn and their dogs to the local rub a dub dub for a pint of bitter in the beer garden. The concert at St. George’s Hall is great and after a long day is ended quietly as it is Sunday night and not much is open.

Fried breakfast at Tiffanys.

I did search and found a place just behind the hall. A square brick box with a tawdry neon sign reading “Hustlers”. Now I am not sure if this place is a pool hall or a “knocking shop” and as I had only adequate funds for the former I desisted. Plus, I decided some years ago to avoid boozers whose name consists of a plural in this form: Neigbours, Belters, Gabber Jabbers, Bammers, etc. One such pub directly across from the Leith Police station was rather charmingly called “Slammers” (it was across from the “slammer” - get it?) and although today it has been transformed into one of the best restaurants in Edinburgh, The Compass, where various Battlefield Band alumni are to be found as often as possible. When it bore the Slammers moniker it exuded a mild aura of menace. At any rate, we never made it to Hustlers.

Monday morning’s fry up was particularly good as the eggs were home grown and the bacon was made from a real pig. Also the rather groovy old couple who ran the house had lots of witches hanging from the ceiling and walls and the added bonus of a Rolls Royce in the garage. All of these things contribute to the generally good “ju-ju” which makes for a better plate of fried food. So today we drive up to Bristol and fly back to Edinburgh for a quick bite and a rake of pints in the Oxford bar.