“Lang may yer lum reek.”
Christmas has been and gone; now we expectantly wait to see what 2021 will bring. Undoubtedly, most of us want to see the back of 2020 and finish a tough year that has seen many spending Christmas apart from their families and loved ones. Sad especially for the very young and old. At home, in Zimbabwe on the farm, we were always at the peak harvest of our irrigated tobacco crop, althåough we enjoyed a Christmas dinner, we spent most of the day in the fields and at the tobacco curing barns. Christmas in Zimbabwe is synonymous with the smell of curing tobacco and the first rains*, definitely not snow.
My family has suddenly decided I must take up painting as I inadvertently mentioned Art was my best subject at school. First, a set of watercolour paints and a drawing pad arrived from my son under the guise of a belated birthday present. It was then agreed between Rozanne and myself we would gift each other with a homemade Christmas card. We avoid giving Christmas gifts to each other. She is sick of me giving her fishing rods and reels. This does not stop the kids from sending presents, or in the case this year, getting Rozanne to procure gifts on their behalf locally for me. So, sure enough, come Christmas Day, there is an easel, more pencils, and a painting pallet. Looks like after nearly fifty-five years since leaving school my family has decided I must take up painting. Does this mean they think my illness will stop me from going fishing in the future? More unanswered questions have been raised in my mind with the arrival of all this painting paraphernalia.
New Year was always a bigger celebration than Christmas in Scotland when I was young. Celebrating Christmas was banned for four hundred years following the Scottish Reformation. Father disapproved of drinking. Hogmanay and New Year were exceptions. I remember clearly the first footers arriving just after midnight on New Years’ morning to celebrate. Everyone in the household was allowed to stay up for this. In fact, it was compulsory. We kids celebrated with Babycham. It was most important that your first footer was a tall, dark male carrying a piece of coal, a black bun, and of course “a wee dram” to offer to the household. This was meant to bring you luck and put you in “good stead” for the coming year.
“We always seem to look forward with hope for the next year when we should be making the most of the present.” Peter McSporran
In Zimbabwe, most of our farming community country clubs would hold a dance or at very least a party on Hogmanay, which would see out the old year and bring in the new. It was always very much a community gathering for both young and old with the farming wives putting on magnificent spreads. Each trying to outshine the other in their individual contributions of food. Always a feast. Friendly competition contributing to an excellent evening. The clubhouses were normally quite a distance from our respective farms; please do not ask how we got home safely.
Let us hope 2021 brings us all that we wish and hopefully, Nicola Sturgeon sees some sense. Maybe the latter is just too much to expect.
Health Update
Nothing to report at all this week. How unusual. A more comfortable week and looking forward to a busy time next week. The cardiologist first thing Monday morning, followed by yet more blood tests, then the surgery and recovery team on Friday the 8th for a pre-surgery meeting. This meeting is scheduled to last four hours and also includes some last-minute tests. For some reason, my weight is rising, which is concerning my cardiologist as it may be due to fluid retention.
Whatever the outcome, 2021 will be a defining year in regard to my health and the shape of Europe in the future. So, I do appreciate this quiet week. Equally, I want to thank Rozanne in advance for the many hours she will have to spend outside the hospital waiting for me. Unfortunately, she is not allowed entry to the various clinics and hospitals due to Covid-19.
Of interest, we have both received notice that we will be called at some point to receive our Covid-19 vaccine. It is voluntary here.
My Life Story and My Philosophy
One of my friends asked me to give an indication of the dates. The narrative in this section relates to 1955 to 1958.
Following on from last week’s blog, the third family that used to take Morag and I under their wing was the Camerons from Laganulva Farm. They were tenant farmers, the farm belonging to Torloisk Estate. John, the head of the family, and his wife were a kind couple. They had a son named Duncan, the stoutest man in the area, who shepherded their sheep. In addition, they had three daughters, Rosemary the oldest, who ran the post office on the farm and ran the farmhouse as a B&B in summer. Jessie and Jeanie were twins. They alternately worked either at their home farm or on Killiechronan depending on the season and the workload. They were two very tough ladies who carried out their tasks equal to any man. These three girls really looked after us, and I thoroughly enjoyed my times at Lagan. They also relied on Tilley lamps, coal fires, and gas heaters. No electricity. Jessie, who loved horses, let me ride her Highland pony called Toska. Every year she would walk this horse to the Salen Agricultural Show where it would always win a red rosette. It may have been the only exhibited Highland pony giving her an insurmountable advantage. I remember the girls on many occasions shedding tears over my mother’s illness. I equally remember many evening's being very jovial with their whole family and enjoying good farmhouse fare. Much laughter and banter. I think that is where I learned how to interject with a one-liner as quick wit was appreciated at that table. I also liked to roll John’s cigarettes for him. Morag and I would vie for his praise in producing the best cigarette. I am sure the praise was dispensed in an even manner. I spent a lot of time on the Killiechronan farm with these two girls, Jessie and Jeanie who could do everything from ploughing to shearing sheep. I do not think they owned handbags just “piece bags”** for lunch and tea.
Meanwhile, on the farm, I learned how to drive a tractor when the adults lifted the hay bales onto the trailer. Of course, I could not change gear as my left foot would not reach the clutch with my right foot resting on the brake. Other jobs included feeding the cattle, lambing, shearing sheep (we called it clipping), and mucking out the animals. With school, there were no spare minutes for normal children’s games; being on the farm was enough fun. One of Lachie McPhail’s and my favourite pastimes in winter was to have informal calf riding rodeos in the cattle sheds which of course were knee-deep in dung laden straw. Only when the adults were absent, of course. I do not know what our mothers thought as we would come home covered in cattle manure. At ten o’clock every night in winter, we fed the pedigree show and sale cattle a hot bran mash mixed earlier in the day. From time to time, we even fed them cod liver oil and eggs to enhance the shine on their coats.
Alec Fraser took over from Mr Denny as the head cattleman. I think Alec may have hailed from Aberdeen because he spoke a strange dialect. Definitely from the East Coast somewhere. Unlike Mr Denny, his predecessor, Alec lived at Gruline Farm, some three miles away from our home where the pedigree herd of Aberdeen Angus was kept in winter. Andy McFarlane, a local Gaelic speaking man, looked after the cattle housed at Killiechronan under the tutelage of Alec Fraser. In fact, all locally born people were Gaelic speakers. I have recently discovered both my sisters learned Gaelic at school and sang Gaelic songs. Andy enjoyed his dram. Drinking does not seem to have been much of a sin in the “Wee Free Church.” Certainly not as bad a sin as washing the dinner dishes on a Sunday, let alone working on a Sunday. Mind you when members of a religion remove the cockerel from the hens on a Saturday night to observe the Sabbath, you must know how seriously they take their beliefs. Andy was an extremely hard worker and seemed happy to work long hours as long as he was paid overtime.
Alec had served his time as a gunner on the Russian Convoys during World War II. If asked about the war, all he could talk about was the freezing cold and the dread of seeing flames on the water. Both Alec and Andy enjoyed a dram, each partaking in this pastime in a totally contrasting manner. One openly, one clandestine.
At that time, Andy was single and drank at all the local dances, where he never danced, or any venue dispensing alcohol. No matter what state he was in the night before, he never missed a day’s work. On the other hand, Alec was a married man with children. He was petrified of his wife, even more so than he was of my father. He took any opportunity when outside of her control to indulge in a good drink. On our return trips from shows and sales on the mainland, far from his wife’s control, we not only had to ensure the cattle and sheep were safely onboard the ship, but also Alec. The greater our success in the show or sales ring, the greater Alec’s consumption. Mainly due to his stockman friends buying him congratulatory drams as they were aware his wife kept him on a tight purse string. God knows what his wife said to him when he got home, whatever it was brought about a humble and quiet Alec until our next trip to the mainland. Men on Mull only drank whisky and beer in those days, not so much of the latter. Even then beer, only as a chaser to the whisky, not the other way round. I remember attending sales at Dalmally and Oban seeing the bar shelves absolutely full with pre-poured whisky glasses to facilitate quick service to the herders and farmers at the end of the sale. Selling livestock was a thirsty job. “Luck pennies”*** had to be spent.
Andy was another great character, although very taciturn. When not looking after cattle he was a tractor driver, in summer he was always the last to leave the fields. Every New Year morning, when he arrived to feed the cattle and milk the house cows, we would stand at the window watching his early morning post-celebration attempts to find his balance while alighting from his van. Just trying to stay upright on the ice-covered concrete yard on his way to the cattle byre was normally just too much to be expected. Later, I would watch him do his annual fall off the milking stool into the dung grip. Every New Year’s Day with Andy on duty, there was never any milk in the house. Everyone living on the estate knew not to come on New Year’s day to collect milk; it never arrived in the farmhouse larder.
In those days the only form of adult entertainment was the local pub, village hall dances, and the occasional whist drive.
Dances would rotate around local village halls on the Island, on a Saturday evening. Occasionally a big event would instigate a Friday night dance. Dances only ever started after 10 pm, that was when the pubs closed. Meanwhile, the women would go to the hall and sit around the outside of the dancefloor facing in and chatting, while they waited patiently for the arrival of the men. Once the men arrived, the band normally consisted of a piano accordion, drums, violin, and piano players. Married and single men alike would congregate at the doorway looking onto the vacant dancefloor, disappearing every ten minutes or so to share a dram in the toilets. You did not dare drink openly in public from the neck of a bottle. All men had to have a half bottle of whisky in their inside jacket pocket. It was mandatory. On occasion, the married men would venture onto the dancefloor and dance with the wife after a while. There were always a few older men who thought they had irresistible charm and were ballroom dancing champions who were happy to dance with other men’s wives to show off their skills. This was much appreciated by those married men who had too much to drink and rarely went beyond a dance for these self-proclaimed charmers.
The single men, it appears, could only approach a lady towards the end of the evening when drink had given them enough courage to do so. Rejection in those small halls was a very public event, and the less you could remember of such an event, the better. On a Saturday night, these dances ended at midnight, once again with the National Anthem. Friday nights until two am. The police would show a face during the course of the evening, but would not be around when all and sundry staggered to their cars. Needless to say, many of the men stuck to the dram in the toilet routine and remained bachelors who took a “really good dram” well into their middle ages. With age, they eventually became vulnerable enough for some courageous and desperate spinster to take charge of their lives. These courageous ladies knew how to look after older men as they had been looking after their elderly parents for years. Saturday night drunks became Sunday morning churchgoers. Sobriety, not a necessary prerequisite.
“As you get older hangovers become easier to achieve and cheaper.” Peter McSporran
We all learned to play whist. I remember the one evening I won a pair of ladies’ stockings much to my mother’s delight in the draw that always followed each evening of cards. A bottle of whisky, a box of chocolates, and ladies stockings were the standard prizes for raffles both at dances and whist drives.
Investing in Africa-Farming in Rhodesia and my Lessons Learned in the Army
In asking for the deferment from the army, I did so with the firm belief that after a year away, I could look towards farming in my own right in Rhodesia. This was possible in Rhodesia for young men with farming experience, limited capital but did hold considerable risk. Of course, the properties made available were those most vulnerable to insurgents' attack on the country’s North-Western borders. The thought of perhaps owning my own farm outweighed the sacrifice of one year in the army, the period required at that time. Little did we know. Eventually, my deferment date expired, and in June 1973, I had to take the train and head off to Llewellin Barracks in Bulawayo. This was the training depot for the territorial army. I include a bit of my army life in this section as part of investing in Africa. I believe what I learned in the army and my experience while in service were critical to some of my success in living and working happily in Africa. I will relate more closely to events in the army on my life blog in proper sequence at a later date.
On arriving at Heany Junction, the closest stop to Llewellin Barracks on the rail line from Salisbury, we were instructed to board the waiting trucks by some thugs dressed as junior NCO’s utilising some inventive and foul language. I have never lost the use of the foul language I learned in my first few days in the army. This has actually been to my detriment, often causing embarrassment. Admittedly at times, it is a means to guarantee someone’s attention. Despite gender equality, ladies seem to be most affected.
Within the first few days of being at Llewellin, I put my hand up for leadership selection. Almost instantly, a group of us found ourselves leading teams and challenged to do various tasks, including fitness tests, finding solutions to both water, structural, and topographical obstacles. Ropes, full two hundred litre drums, barrels, team members, brains, and brute force were both our tools and part of the challenges. I presume from these tests they could identify those displaying some leadership skills. Written tests were also undertaken. Before long, about eighteen of us were heading to an officer training course at the School of Infantry in Gwelo.
We territorial conscripts were expected to learn what the normal regular officer cadet would take two years to learn in twelve weeks. As the war intensified, we became more respected by the regulars. The first six weeks of training were very physical with sleepless nights leading to many drop-outs which was the main purpose of this induction. On return to Llewellin, they joined the junior NCO courses.
The first lesson we all learned was if you are given a command, carry it out to the best of your ability no matter what. It did not matter if the task to be undertaken defeated logic or was physically impossible. Just try to do it to your best ability. Failure was not as paramount as abandoning the task. The latter would mean an immediate return to depot. This makes you much more tenacious in later life when faced with adversity. It does not necessarily make you more logical.
The next thing we learned very quickly was that the team is all-important. In the army, the team is called a stick, a section, a squad, a platoon, or a company, but it is the team. It was continually drummed into us by means of punishing physical exercise that a team is only as strong as its weakest link. All punishments or awards were handed out on the performance of the weakest team member. One person to fail was recognised as the whole team’s failure. Often we would physically carry team members round the assault course or to the finishing line on battle marches. This really sorted the good leaders out from the loudmouths, bullies, and poor motivators. In farming, I used this lesson often. It is up to the manager to make sure the skills that your employees have are used to their ultimate. Do not ask someone who has no interest or ability to carry out a task, give him one more suited to his skills. The individual does not necessarily have the capability to do everything. Nothing demoralises someone more than failure—even small failures. Most especially hurtful is ridicule following failure, but failure must be recognised. Do not praise where not deserved. Everyone has different skill sets. It is essential to recognise and utilise each individual's skills.
Short and concise orders and reports were essential when we went operational. Here we learned to keep these short and to the point. Especially as it took ages to encode long messages.
You learn patience in the army. Hurry up and wait is a reality much more than a cliché in the army. The final lesson, most so when we went operational, was the taking of responsibility for both your actions and your men. It is impossible to hide behind bullshit when you are in the operational area under combat conditions. Everyone scrutinizes the action of their superiors, peers, and subordinates in the army. There is nowhere to hide; perhaps it is different in a peacetime army.
I finally completed the officer course but failed to be commissioned. My final interview said I was a capable leader. But who would understand my Scottish accent, especially over the radio? Xenophobia, was that around then? Strange, they made me a sergeant, which in the command structure is much more hands-on and vocal. It is probably one of the more responsible and independent ranks you can have, particularly in a combat unit. I was obviously just not officer material notwithstanding, I acted as a platoon commander through most of my army career.
In the army, you learn how important training is. Yes on the rifle range, the drill square, and obstacle course you continually ask yourself why are you doing this again. When it comes to putting what you have learned into practice in combat or other critical situations, the importance of training comes to the fore. Throughout my time farming and business, I have insisted on my staff having access to as much training as possible.
Further, the army instills the skill of decisive decision making. Once you have seen and enjoyed the camaraderie of your fellow soldiers under duress, you will forever appreciate life from a different perspective. Every day you realise you are lucky just to be where you are, it can always be worse.
“Do not expect your life will get better just because you hope it will. Only your actions today will ensure a better tomorrow.” Peter McSporran
*First rains - Moments before a rain event, an “earthy” smell known as petrichor does permeate the air. People call it musky, fresh – generally pleasant. This smell actually comes from the moistening of the ground. A byproduct of their activity is an organic compound called geosmin, which contributes to the petrichor scent. - EarthSky
**Piece bags - Canvas bags to carry thermos flasks and sandwiches
***Luck pennies - A small cash token payment from the seller to the buyer.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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