Adventures of a Lone Bass Player

Today I sold my first photograph! Or, to be more accurate, Matchgirl did, as she was in charge of the stall at the time.

Much of yesterday morning was spent at the now swine flu-free Snapper household where I printed three dozen 11x8in snaps on its fine Epson machine. The only drawback was that no Epson paper was available so I had to settle for Tesco Finest Super Glossy – and learned beyond doubt that top quality paper really does make a difference.

The prints were acceptable but didn’t glow like they can when paper designed to be used with a particular machine and ink is used.

Mounting operations occupied the afternoon, followed by backing, labelling and bagging, at the end of which I had a boxful of prints, three of them framed, and one framed A3 print, all at competitive prices. I was ready.

The craft fair was held in a hall near The Rural Retreat. I’d been told that no other photographers had taken stalls, so when I saw ace professional and fellow Cromarty Camera Club member Andrew Dowsett unloading outside the front door I was rather taken aback. Fortunately he’s a friendly chap. Other stalls were occupied by horticulture, baking, needlework, Christmas tat and some of the wooden artefacts created by Mr Snapper, who has several strings to his bow.

I spent much of the morning watching the crowds around other stalls and wondering who’d put up the invisible barrier that kept them away from mine. Mr Snapper had similar trouble, but as his work is high end and highly priced that wasn’t so surprising. Andrew was kept busy after luring prospective purchasers to his stall with his own budget-priced greetings cards and a small calendar. Another lesson learned.

Matchgirl arrived at lunch time to give me moral support and a break and prove that she’s more of an attraction than me by selling my first photo. I’d have put my money on a squirrel, a snow monkey, a big cat or Bess as the most popular print; in the event, Castle Craig broke my duck, followed a while later by Namibian zebras.


And that was it: a few compliments, some interest, several business cards taken, but only two photos sold. I would have been delighted to sell five, so two wasn’t a total disappointment. Maybe next time.

It could have been three. One young girl was desperate to own a photo of Sasha the Amur tiger but her mum said £20 was too much. Being a softy, at the end of the day I told her she could have it for £10. Mum still said no. It’s a long time since I’ve seen a more downcast girl. I almost gave it to her for nothing, but the cheapskate mum had annoyed me. It’s a funny old world.

So I've plenty of stock available for purchase, and Christmas is coming. Buy the perfect gift for your loved one here – and contribute to the Buy Bassman A Decent Printer Of His Own Fund.

Life in The Rural Retreat has become very noisy.

My recent illness came and went in an afternoon but poor Matchgirl still suffers more than a week after symptoms appeared. The sniffling and snuffling is over; in its place is a hacking cough that resembles the call of a love-lorn walrus in search of a mate.

It's fortunate we don't live beside the sea or we'd have to fight off amorous pinnipeds every time we stepped outside the cottage.

The alarming sound that reverberates inside the Retreat has had an effect outside its walls: The Invisible Pine Marten failed to take his free meal yesterday evening for the first time in many weeks, clearly worried about the monster that prowls the vicinity.

Vicks, Venos, Lemsips, Strepsils and medicinal cookies and ice-cream have brought no relief to my plague-ridden partner. All suggestions gratefully received.

The recent weather has not been welcomed by Bess the Baldy Cat. The regrowth of her fur seems to have slowed, leaving a large expanse of mostly bare skin exposed to the elements.

Much of her time today, Matchgirl reports, was spent waiting for the rain to stop so she could make use of The Rural Retreat's bushes rather than her litter tray. When she'd plucked up courage a few drops were all that were needed to send her scurrying back indoors to wash away the offending precipitation.

The evening was also spent in an agony of indecision about whether to stay in or go out. Life can be tough for fastidious felines. I've suggested a plastic mac to keep her dry during outdoor adventuring, or a moggy toupee to cover her baldy bits and stop the sniggering of neighbourhood mice, but both ideas were rejected by Matchgirl.

Sometimes the effort to be helpful is wasted.

Band Update: Transport difficulties (Adam) and employment overspill (Matt) forced the last-minute abandonment of Shaker's planned rehearsal. This was a pity as Jim is back on dry land and eager to wield his axe. We'll try again next week.

Bess was delighted to see us when we arrived at cat prison this morning, ready to free her from captivity. She meowed happily and ran to meet us, eager to return to The Rural Retreat.

I jest, of course. She greeted us with a basilisk stare and remained immobile on the heated basket provided by an over-indulgent management. Matchgirl prised her from her throne with effort and put her into her carrier with even more effort. Back home, she was disinclined to eat until bribed with treats and chicken.

She recovered her spirits later and even jumped on to her favoured winter resting place – the shelf above one of the living room radiators – for the first time since her accident but remained on the moochy side all day. Amazingly, it’s possible that the world’s most anti-social cat might be missing feline companionship.

The head wardress at cat prison revealed that Bess had shown interest in and interacted with her neighbours, which was music to Matchgirl’s ears. The possibility of the Retreat becoming a two-cat household has soared.

Photographic Update: Preparations for the weekend craft fair don’t go well. The mounts supplied after an online transaction are the wrong size and my Epson’s print quality has declined alarmingly, which means I’ll have to brave the swine flu-laden interior of the Snappers’ residence if I wish to use their machine. More Snapperettes have contracted the virus, so it’s a risky place to be. I bet Annie Leibovitz doesn’t have these problems.

We did get away for our Borders weekend, but hosts Dee and Don may have preferred that we’d stayed away. Matchgirl, who’d recovered from her illness on Friday morning, suffered a relapse in the evening; on Saturday afternoon I exhibited similar symptoms myself. Contagion will be rife in southern Scotland next week.

Plans to get out and about were reduced to a brief jaunt into Kelso – a place that’s worth a visit if only to see a town that’s kept its own identity. Most of the smart stone buildings in its centre are occupied by real local shops, not the usual high street chains. Most impressive of all, there’s not a Tesco to be seen – the only supermarket, hidden out of sight on the edge of the retail area, is a Somerfield.

Highlight of our morning was a meander beside the swollen river which a day or two earlier had flooded. There we met a young girl (accompanied by her parents) who informed us proudly that she’d been busy rescuing fish. Those left stranded in puddles and temporary ponds when the waters had receded were returned to the Tweed by their small saviour.

Matchgirl was still under the weather this morning but I’d recovered enough to drive Mr Ford back up the rain-shrouded A9 where I may have been snapped by one of the many static speed cameras. This was particularly unfair, for I’d driven responsibly and economically all weekend in an effort to discover how many miles can be wrung from Mr Ford’s tank. At least fifty more than previously, as it turned out.

My breach of the motoring laws I blame on a lapse in concentration caused by the X Factor reject on Perthshire FM who at the time was murdering the Bonnie Tyler classic Total Eclipse of the Heart. It shouldn’t be allowed. The mail will be monitored anxiously for the next few weeks.

But it’s good to be home, even without Bess to welcome us, for she’ll spend one more night in cat prison before being released tomorrow. This means that Matchgirl and I should enjoy one last night of uninterrupted slumber. Uninterrupted, that is, except by Matchgirl’s cough.


Photographic Update: Cromarty Camera Club claimed second place in this year’s Highland Challenge which was judged on Saturday. This was a fine result for a small club that doesn’t take itself as seriously as the Serious Lenses of Dingwall (1st) and Inverness (4th). Club member Andrew Dowsett, whose lens cap I’m not worthy to polish, earned full marks for both of the snaps he submitted and won the prize for best monochrome print. One of my prints scored sixteen out of twenty; the other scored twelve. There’s no pleasing some people.

Medical problems continue to plague The Rural Retreat.

Bess is not the sufferer. No more rodents have gone to meet their maker (not inside the cottage, anyway) but the rejuvenated feline is full of energy and eager to be in the garden if it’s not too cold or wet and there’s someone to let her back in when she’s had enough. The cat-flap has become the last resort that it always used to be.

She’s even scrambled up and around her willow tree a few times, much to Matchgirl’s anguish, for the moggy’s mum finds it tough to accept that the ex-patient isn’t a fragile flower any more.

The fragile flower now is Matchgirl, who came home snuffling and sniffling and most unhappy with life. She says it’s just a cold, but I know in her heart she’s certain that swine flu has found its way from the Snapper household. This is a nuisance, for tomorrow we cruelly consign Bess to cat prison and drive to the Borders for the weekend to renew auld acquaintance with Dee and Don.

If Matchgirl’s debility allows it. And the north of England/south of Scotland monsoon permits it. Time will tell.

Matchgirl the hypochondriac took the news remarkably well – swine flu has broken out amongst our neighbours in the Snapper household.

They’ve not yet painted a cross on their door and hauled up the plague flag, but when I visited tonight to ask Mrs Snapper’s advice about the forthcoming craft fair I was warned not to cross the threshold. Two Snapperettes have been diagnosed with the condition and more are expected to succumb soon.

Perhaps Matchgirl is in shock; maybe the news won’t sink in until tomorrow (although she did wonder how far airborne contagion will carry). When it does, expect chemists’ shelves in Dingwall to be swept clear and an exclusion zone established around The Rural Retreat.

Bess may look like a moth-eaten fur coat, but tonight she proved herself completely recovered from the trauma of her mystery accident.

Following her evening stroll with Matchgirl the perky puss declined to re-enter The Rural Retreat, so was left outside to follow her own devices.

Fifteen minutes later the sound of a cat demanding access was heard at the door. When it was opened she sauntered in, dropped an expired mouse on the carpet, boasted noisily, gave the corpse a few half-hearted pats then disappeared behind the sofa to attend to urgent grooming.

The Rodent Holocaust has resumed.

As recycling is practised seriously in the Retreat, the ruined rodent was taken out and left for The Invisible Pine Marten to find. It’s a while since we’ve been able to leave a meat treat alongside his regular Nutella rations. I’m sure it won’t be the last

Band Update: Shaker Lite gathered earlier tonight – Jim’s still drilling for black gold somewhere in the North Sea – and made appreciable progress despite the lack of one guitar. Gordon doesn’t yet belt ’em out like Garry did but week by week he’s loosening up and we already have a core of numbers around which to build. The future looks promising.

What’s more, we have the offer of a music festival gig next summer. The date is July 31 and the swinging hot spot somewhere on Barra – not quite among the remotest of the Western Isles but in the general vicinity. Nothing’s confirmed but general opinion is that it would be a fun gig.

Matchgirl is quite taken with the idea, so we may have to make room for wags in the band bus. Even better.

This assumes the band members are still alive next year. Gordon’s studio, which has no exterior lighting, is surrounded by potholes and builders’ debris – all the ingredients for a great rock and roll tragedy. We’ll be careful.

It’s been a quiet weekend with little activity, photographic or otherwise, but a memorable one for Matchgirl – not only did Doctor Who return to our screen tonight, but James May and his Top Gear mates were also back in action. What more can a girl ask for (apart from more shoes)?

So as I’ve nothing new, here’s two second choice squirrels from Friday’s photoshoot in secret Speyside. Everybody say ahhhh.

Much of today was spent with Dolphin James who set out to enjoy a final photo spree before he allows himself to fall beneath the surgeon's knife and is put out of action for an unspecified time. His empathy for Bess is now even stronger.

Our destination was the Highland hideaway where he keeps his jealously guarded secret squirrels. The day was fine, the light good, and the red ruffians were in top form: six or seven of them squabbled, scurried and scampered for our entertainment, sometimes just feet away from us.


One cheeky chappie ran directly at me, as though planning to scramble up my leg, then diverted to a tree, three feet away, from behind which he played high-speed peekaboo before dashing into the distance, laughing. I didn't get the pictures.

As I'm woefully short of practice in snapping twinkletoed tree-dwellers the good shots were missed, but I managed a few almost-good ones. All look fine on Flickr but I suspect none will stand the real test, of being printed. Despite that I went away happy – the entertainment bought with a bag of nuts is immense and there's always another time to capture the award-winning image.


A second highlight of the day was the red kite tree back on the Black Isle. Seven birds gave us a brief aerobatic display before departing for somewhere more private. I missed those pictures too, but there's always etc etc.

The bonus was another snap of Kessock Bridge, which has become a strong contender for the theme of an ARPS submission. I'll continue to gather images and see what happens. A good day.


Moggy Update: Matchgirl, who stayed home with Bess, reports that the convalescent spent time in the garden where she brushed up her hunting skills by pouncing on leaves, grass and shadows. The day can't be long away that The Rodent Holocaust resumes.

She also reports that Bess was rendered most uneasy by the sound of passing agricultural machinery. Our suspicions about the source of her injuries may be justified.

Bess took another significant step forward tonight following a short stroll around the garden. After sniffing around for unauthorised visitors and completing private business in the bushes she re-entered The Rural Retreat through the cat-flap.

This is good news. Matchgirl had feared that the effort involved would be too much for a moggy whose hind muscles remain rather weak, but she climbed through the entrance without a problem.

Doorkeepers are still required for her exits, however; unaccompanied strolling is not yet allowed so the cat-flap operates only one way. It will be another week before Bess is free to roam without being shadowed by Matchgirl.

Photographic Update: Cromarty Camera Club’s agenda tonight featured Photoshop tutorials, which were most illuminating. How much I’ll remember is another matter.

Something else of interest I learned was that one avid reader of this blog (hello Roda) is a member of the rival Dingwall Camera Club, a group favoured by many Serious Lenses with whole alphabets of letters after their names. I am both honoured and humbled.

One of the pleasures of life in The Rural Retreat is the many trees that surround us: Bess’s sprawling willow; the resurgent apple hacked back earlier this year by Bob the Mad Axeman; ditto the recovering lilac; Mr Marten’s Nutella tree; the long-wrecked pine at the bottom of the garden and its partner that still stands tall; plus a variety of other arboreal examples beside the drive and along the boundary of our broad acres.

In winter they’re a reminder of past beauty. In spring they exemplify renewal. In summer they provide shade and colour... And in autumn all their leaves drop off. Every silver lining has a dark cloud, as Matchgirl might say.

The gutters are choked, the lawn is covered, and from October to December we fight a constant battle to keep leaves out of the cottage – a struggle we’re doomed to lose because the front door opens directly on to the garden. The vacuum cleaner is used sparingly (because Bess objects) so the lounge carpet looks like a forest floor unless we clear it by hand. Which means it usually looks like a forest floor.

An enclosed storm porch, with optional rose trellis, is the traditional and obvious solution to this problem, for not only would we keep out the autumn leaves, we’d also have somewhere to keep coats and footwear (not Matchgirl’s sparkly ones, obviously) plus some handy insulation around a sometimes draughty front door.

However, the glacial speed of change in our home sweet home suggests that construction is unlikely to begin in the immediate future. Until then we’ll continue to pick leaves off the carpet – it’s all part of country living.

Today I delivered my first photographic masterpieces to The Storehouse for display. Two gems of the snapper’s art are now available to be fought over by the establishment’s clientele; two more returned home with me because the management prefers scenes with a Highland setting, so Namibian wildlife is not wanted. Shame that wasn’t made clear earlier.

A Speyside squirrel and Black Isle gulls could become my first sales, for take-up of my online offerings has not so far been a roaring success.

But more opportunity knocked last night in the shape of Mrs Snapper who darkened my door to deliver the news that she’d taken it upon herself to book me the last available stall at a pre-Christmas arts and crafts fair to be held nearby on the last Saturday in November. What a star.

Serious printing, mounting and framing operations will begin as soon as I’ve ascertained from the expert which images are likely to be most popular in the festive retail frenzy. This time next year we could be millionaires, Rodney.
The Pentax was in action again today. Inspired by yesterday’s snap of Kessock Bridge, I returned to another viewpoint to see what could be made of the structure when it’s shrouded in fog. Not much, as it turned out, but one image was worth keeping. I’m undecided whether I prefer it in colour or black and white.

Band Update: Shaker Lite convened at Gordon’s studio tonight, for Jim is again hanging about with roughnecks on oil rigs, but progress was slow without him. Matt, Adam and I are also still getting used to the acoustics of the studio, which seem very strange after the booming hollowness to be found inside Mulbuie Hall. Despite that, improvement was made. This time next year we’ll be stars.

Bess has chosen an unfortunate time to become well enough to be released into the great outdoors – frosty weather doesn't suit a cat who prefers to keep her paws warm and dry. The threadbare hole in her fur coat makes things worse.

On just one occasion has Matchgirl had to chivvy a reluctant moggy back indoors, fearful that over-exercise would cause a relapse. Every other time the frozen feline has turned towards the front door first and waited impatiently to be let back into the warmth of The Rural Retreat.


Yesterday evening, after leaving a garden enveloped in almost sub-zero temperatures, Bess ignored the comfort of her basket and instead seated herself as close to the radiator as she could get, her baldy bits just inches away from its soothing heat. This may have been done by chance, but the expression on her face suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.

Although her fur is regrowing steadily it might be a month or more before her coat is even close to being repaired, so Matchgirl believes a stylish cat jacket may be necessary to keep her pet snug during forays into the Arctic wilderness that will soon surround the Retreat.

However, Bess would be sensible to decline the offer – if Mr Marten were to see her in such a cissy outfit she'd undoubtedly be ousted from her role as the Retreat's top predator.

Matchgirl reluctantly left the Retreat and the convalescent today for another flying visit to Shetland. I've been warned not to let Bess overdo things or risk Matchgirl's severe displeasure.


Returning home after depositing the jet-setter at Inverness Airport, I stopped along the way to snap the sunset's afterglow behind Kessock Bridge and the Wester Ross mountains. Very pretty.

Today the front door of The Rural Retreat was thrown open and Bess re-entered the outside world for the first time since she stumbled across our threshold, badly injured, almost two months ago.

Earlier, she’d clamoured to be let out, but when her wish was granted she hesitated for a few moments, uncertain that her long confinement indoors was really at an end. Then she strode boldly forward into the damp, leaf-strewn garden, shadowed by a protective Matchgirl, to investigate what had changed in her absence.

Also watching her was a small flock of disgruntled birds, unhappy that the resident predator was once more on the prowl. No doubt lots of anxious rodent eyes watched too.

She returned of her own accord after only a few minutes, but on two more occasions requested that the door be opened for increasingly lengthy explorations of her domain, which included a rather shaky ascent of our willow tree’s lower branches. The cat-flap won’t be unlocked just yet, for her outdoor forays must be supervised for at least a week.

All this activity was hard work for a cat who still has to build up the strength in her rear legs – not long after her final exploration she was tucked up and snoring in her basket. With luck she’ll sleep past 5am tomorrow. And so will we.

Cromarty Camera Club’s keen snappers assembled this evening for the weekly gathering which this time featured the projected image competition. Members submitted two entries, to be viewed anonymously then voted on by everyone. I had high hopes for my two submissions: Forest Solitude and Ross-shire Shadows.

So it was a little disappointing that neither found favour with my peers. The images didn’t even scrape into tenth place (out of forty).


Of possibly more concern was that two of the three images which received my highest marks (we don’t vote for our own) didn’t make it into the top ten either, although the third was the winner.

This suggests I’m rather out of step with many of my fellow club members when it comes to judging what makes a good snap – not very reassuring just days before several beautifully framed masterworks are placed before the public for their purchasing pleasure, among them the very squirrel that received such a decisive thumbs down.

Let’s hope that buyers judge differently from photographers or before long the walls of The Rural Retreat could be covered in unsold artworks. On the bright side, it would save redecorating…

Picture framing is one of those overlooked skills, taken for granted in a world that’s too busy to think about such trifles, but its practitioners are heroes.

In my continuing quest to derive some income from my photographic skills (such as they are) I’ve come to an arrangement with the management of The Storehouse at Foulis Ferry near Evanton, for not only does this establishment serve fine food to weary A9 travellers and hungry locals, it also offers a place for artists to exhibit and sell their work.

A small selection of my efforts will soon grace the walls there. However, before that can happen the chosen prints must be mounted and framed. Mounting is easy; framing isn’t.

I could get a professional to do the job, but you need to book them weeks in advance and their expertise commands such hefty recompense that any potential profit would be wiped out. So I’m doing it myself.

This doesn’t involve saws, glue, varnish and glass-cutters – I know my limits – just an exchange of cash at a craft shop in return for ready-made frames. An easy job, you’d think.

Where the dust comes from is a mystery. Slip the mounted print into the frame, turn it over to check all’s clear, turn it again so you can bend down those annoying metal tabs that hold the back in place, turn it over again to admire the finished job. Then curse because flecks of wood are stuck between the glass and the mount. For the third time.

Breaking the glass in one of the frames was the final straw.

I’ll get back to it tomorrow.

It’s official – Shaker has a new singer. The existing band members descended on Gordon’s country residence this evening where we were directed to the spacious studio in the shed behind his house. Bonus!

The former front man of Mrs Miggins’ Pie Shop hadn’t sung with a band for a couple of years, and was a touch nervous, but he acquitted himself creditably on the six or seven songs we ran through. Future prospects look good. And we’ve even got a place to leave all the gear.

A longer rehearsal is scheduled for next week when additions to the set will also be debated. We hope to be back before our public in mid-December, for we’ve the offer of a gig in Aviemore where the patrons of Café Mambo are desperate to hear us again. Fingers crossed.

Feline Update: Bess, who’d spent many weeks striving for permanent release from her cage, chose to sleep there for much of yesterday and part of the evening. There’s no accounting for cats.

Today she’s been allowed to jump on to the sofa, but weakness in her unexercised rear end meant the necessary spring was missing. She made it up, but with lots of undignified scrabbling, although this could be a ruse to fool Matchgirl into serving more strength-giving chicken breast. Our moggy can be a sly one.

Bess yesterday enjoyed her first night of freedom since the emergency admission to Animal Hospital two months ago. Indoor freedom, that is – she’ll have to wait a little longer before the cat-flap’s unlocked.

Following her accident, she’s spent every night confined to the feline ward at Dr Death’s premises or in the cage on the ground floor of The Rural Retreat. Yesterday the cage door was left open, which allowed the recovering kitty to return to her favourite overnight sleeping place – her mat at the top of the stairs. Life is almost back to normal.

She showed her gratitude by allowing Matchgirl and me to get a full night’s rest. Happy days.

The recuperating cat is clearly pleased to be free of her prison, for much of her day is now spent in the Retreat’s upper storey. Matchgirl, who’d grown used to keeping a close eye on her beloved pet, is missing her already.

What can’t be missed is the moggy’s face all over Ross-shire, for she’s become a newspaper celebrity. The county’s finest weekly broadsheet yesterday carried a piece, written by me, about my rise to LRPSness, accompanied by some of the snaps that gained me the distinction. Among them was the picture of Bess, which also featured in the paper’s page one taster box.

You can read the piece here. I hope the star doesn’t demand royalties.


Photographic Update: Matchgirl and I unwisely headed west today in search of scenery and Pentax opportunities; the weather was better on the Black Isle. The rain held off long enough for me to take a few snaps from the viewpoint that looks down the glen towards Loch Maree – a view that’s worth the looking at, even if it’s lost some character since the single-track road was upgraded a couple of years ago. If it’s not the most scenic road in Britain it must be in the top ten.

Almost a year ago I abandoned a high-flying career with the Great Northern Media Empire for the less secure life of freelance journalist and writer of fiction.

Then Matchgirl and I honeymooned in Namibia, from where I returned transformed into an aspiring photographer. Since then very little fiction has been written. Not even in the blog.

So the arrival this morning of a package containing three copies of Maggie – the novel I've been waiting almost a year to be published as part of a free online scheme – didn't cause the excitement it would have done a few months ago.


I wrote the book several years ago so there were many references to update before it was submitted to New Generation Publishing. Annoyingly, I missed at least one – an ashtray in a hotel room. Doh!

But the tale is now in print and can even be found on Amazon. Look here if you don't believe me – all yours for the paltry sum of £7.99. Between its disappointingly flimsy covers can be found the tale of  Maggie MacAskill, a burned-out war reporter who returns to her home town “to make peace with her family and end the nightmares – hopes thrown into turmoil by an unexpected face from the past”. Chapter One can be read on my website.

It's exciting stuff, and a splendid Christmas gift for the one you love. As are fine photographic prints.

This has been a hard week at the end of a hard month, but it’s all my own fault. When one of the Chief Gnome’s many assistants asked me to ply my trade in aid of the Great Northern Media Empire for four days a week during October, instead of the three to which I’ve become accustomed, I was too polite to refuse. Fool.

The good news is that I have all next week off: time to recover and get out and about with the Pentax, plus the bonus that I’ll be absent during the latest attempt by the IT experts to install the gremlin-bedevilled system upgrade at GNoME HQ.

Life has been much harder for the recuperating cat. Bess took two days to recover from her vaccinations, although she still found the energy for her early-morning serenades, and she’s increasingly indignant about having to use a litter tray rather than be allowed into the garden. Being caged at night and when we’re out during the day is no fun either.

But existence isn’t all gloom. Her favourite spot at the top of the stairs has been reclaimed, fur is growing back over her shaved patch, and Tesco’s best roast chicken is a frequent supplement to her regular diet. Next week she’ll be permitted to jump on to the sofa and the week after that allowed to roam free once again when the cat-flap is unchained.

That will be a stern test for Matchgirl – the thought of her pet at large and alone to face the dangers of the big wide world will be difficult for her to cope with. That’s why the unsuspecting moggy has been booked into a cattery late in November so we can spend a long-overdue weekend away.

This can be a cruel world for trusting pussycats.

My optimism was misplaced, but so was Matchgirl’s pessimism – Bess will soon be allowed back into the real world. Not quite yet, though.

Dr Death declared herself well pleased with the patient’s progress. Following her recommendations, the barricade at the foot of the stairs has been lifted and Bess will be allowed access to The Rural Retreat’s upper storey, although jumping up to or down from beds, sofas and tables is forbidden until next week. Supervision will be strict, of course.

The following week, Bess will be allowed into the garden to take health-giving strolls and to do her business away from the litter tray – again under the watchful eye of Matchgirl. After that, if there’s been no relapse, she’ll be left to conduct her life as she sees fit.

The bad news is that she still has to suffer three more weeks of overnight confinement to her cage. That’s three more weeks of 5am reveille for us, unless the alarm cat’s internal clock resets itself to GMT.

Today, however, Bess has not taken advantage of the more relaxed conditions that surround her house arrest. Her examination at Dr Death’s clinic first thing this morning was followed by annual vaccinations which left her dopey all day and disinclined to do anything but sleep.

This was bad planning. If we’d booked the invalid a 4.30pm appointment, Matchgirl and I could have enjoyed a yowl-free night. As it is, Bess will probably emerge from her drug-induced stupor around midnight, filled with energy and desperate for company.

Band Update: Shaker’s next singer has accepted the invitation to join Ross-shire’s premier rock band. The first rehearsal will take place next Monday, after which – if we’re all still talking – his identity will be revealed.

Yesterday evening, before retiring to bed, I did the same as millions of people all over the country – I reset the clocks in anticipation of the move from Summer Time to GMT.

But one thing I couldn't reset was Bess.

That's why the yowls of a cat eager to be released from her cage woke Matchgirl and me at five this morning instead of six, as they've done for the past week or so.

Matchgirl, who's assumed responsibility for early morning feline freedom, found a cat who wished to play and had to be restrained from leaping around (for Matchgirl takes her supervision of the convalescent seriously).

Apart from a stubbly shaved patch and a few stitches, Bess appears to be almost her old self. The stitches will be removed tomorrow, when I'm hopeful that Dr Death will give the patient the all clear; Matchgirl is less optimistic. No surprise there.

Whatever the decision, there can be no more than a couple of weeks of enforced cage rest left for the frolicsome feline – and her carers – to endure. However, even someone as optimistic as me doesn't expect more sleep when the cage is consigned to the outhouse and the cat-flap unlocked. Bess's delight to be back among Rural Retreat rodents grown fat and lazy during her absence is sure to be vocal.

Band Update: This afternoon the remaining members of Shaker gathered at Matt's grace and favour cottage in the grounds of stately Foulis Castle to discuss the beat combo's future, as a result of which the vacant position of singer may soon be filled. I'll withhold details of the nomination until the appointment is confirmed. If we're lucky we might be able to rescue a couple of the cancelled gigs. Watch this space.

My photographic career took an exciting step forward today, for sixteen choice prints are now available to buy through my website (with the assistance of PayPal). Don't all rush at once – I wouldn't want the site to crash.

The collection comprises four sets – Landscapes, Animals, Namibia and Abstracts – any of which would be the perfect Christmas gift for the one you love or a fine treat for yourself. Prints may be bought individually, but buy a complete set and you'll receive a 20% discount! What more could the lover of quality photographic art ask? No – you'll have to find the frame for yourself. However, at no extra cost, I'll add a tasteful cream mount.

Of course, the real excitement will occur when I make a sale. Assuming I make one. If you wish the honour of becoming the first purchaser of a superb print by Bassman99 LRPS, click here.


No more snaps were snapped today, although Matchgirl and I did venture down Strathconon in the hope of seeing stags at their rut. One beast was spotted, well away from us, who lounged in the long grass from where he kept an eye on his harem. I suspect the pecking order's now well established and the action over for another year.

However, action may soon be rife in The Rural Retreat's broad acres, for this morning two bird feeders were put up there for the first time. This was of immediate interest to a variety of ornithological life.

The difficulty is that it may also be of interest to Mr Marten, passing sparrowhawks and a housebound cat, full of energy, who could be mere days away from being allowed outside again. A way will be found to keep everyone happy but some trial and error may have to take place.

It's a jungle out there.

Today Dolphin James introduced me to the pleasures to be found at Squirrel Street, the location of which he guards jealously, so to cast an eye, and a camera lens, over the secret place was an honour. Squirrels are guaranteed to be seen there, he told me, and so they were.

The only down side was the dim light in the morning: fast squirrels and slow shutter speeds are a poor combination. However, watching the creatures dart about, gathering the nuts James had kindly brought with him, scurrying along the ground and leaping from branch to branch, was splendid entertainment. Flocks of even quicker coal tits and chaffinches were a bonus.


After lunch at a nearby café – which must remain unnamed for reasons of security – we returned in the hope that the light had improved. It had, so we gathered more images and watched acrobatics that climaxed with a high-speed scamper along branches just feet from the two of us. Squirrels like to show off.

The acrobat was too fast for us, but watching his antics so close to where we stood more than compensated for our failure. And I saw my first spotted woodpecker, which was also too fast.


Although even my best photos won’t win any awards, I’m happy with them. My favourite was posted on Flickr, along with three others, but withdrawn minutes later after being spotted by a horrified James. I’d given away the location, he said. Shame – it’s a rather good snap.


Medical Update: Cabin fever is the latest malady to afflict Bess the Recuperating Cat. The lounge area of The Rural Retreat is now too small for an increasingly sprightly moggy who wants to play and stretch her legs. She even managed to sneak upstairs while our backs were turned, although an anxious Matchgirl carried her back down again with careful haste. The patient will be treated like an invalid until Dr Death declares her fit and well. The bottom of the stairs is now barricaded to prevent deceitful cats from slinking upstairs on rickety rear legs. Life can be hard.