The only thing busy in Wick is....?

Today it rains. It's the sort of rain that, when you listen by the window, feels as though it has been falling for months, and will continue to fall for months. But the truth is we've had a fantastic summer up here. July seems to be getting wetter by the day, but that's only of late - the year has been hot and dry. July and August usually disappoint in Scotland - the hope is something half decent returns on odd days to break the monotony currently threatened by the smattering of rain on glass.

Senility, poor memory and absurd optimism are prerequisites of life in the Highlands. As the rain falls - remember it as the first decent rain we've had - it'll clear soon; as the sun shines thus has it been all year - a drop of rain wouldn't go amiss.

Yesterday, sunshine and showers, was a day out for us. Buying oats, visiting cheese makers and vets and shops et cetera.

The farmer we are now buying oats from also grows potatoes, which he sells to the
Faroe Islands - gets a good price for them apparently - far better than selling them locally because other growers hereabouts started a price war. So inspite of the hassle with customs (where a tonne is a tonne - no more no less, and paperwork paperwork paperwork), inspite of the costs of transport to Faroe via Aberdeen, he can get the best prices.

Happy were the cheesemakers. If happiness is to be found in the most venomous hatred of Tesco I have ever encountered*, and if happiness is to be found in a loathing of customers (not people who buy the cheese, but those who don't (because they shop in Tescos), or worse, those shops and hotels that were once customers but are no more because Tescos is cheaper, or they have become part of a chain where all food is purchased centrally with no room for local exotics, and farmers markets - yes farmers markets - who no longer allow them to take stalls because they come from too far away ('it's the food miles you see')). And if happiness is to be found in spilling spleen and spit in their contempt of any and every incarnation of officialdom. And if happiness is to be found in telling us, bluntly, repeatedly and at every opportunity not to do it, it is folly, 'you'd be better knitting socks'.

And if happiness is to be found in making cheese - for in making cheese they shone, glowing with pride and finesse they practiced and demonstrated their art with great aplomb and majesty and pride. It was truly stunning. They had been told by officialdom that they couldn't make cheese because they knew nothing about it, they had encountered innumerable obstacles and overcome them with tremendous grit and great ingenuity. And they make great cheeses. Happy were the cheesemakers.

And, in case you're wondering, a wee quote picked up on our travels yesterday:

"The only thing busy in Wick is the Sheriffs Court."

* Yes hatred - had we been outside I think the phlegm would have been bouncing off the cobble stanes like summer hail - though strangely, when some tourists arrived to buy cheese and asked for a bag, a Tesco carrier bag was quickly found. But that dilemma surely sharpens the ill-sentiment.