Rab McNeill champions the benefits of the great outdoors

IMUST confess it’s been disturbing how Covid has led many folk to start living the way that I have for years: working from home; never talking to anyone for days on end; stravaiging aboot in the quite good outdoors.

This week’s morally uplifting homily concerns the last named. According to a poll commissioned by NiQuitin, producers of anti-smoking paraphernalia, citizens of Britland spend five hours and 43 minutes a week outside, with the aim of boosting their mood.

Partly, it says here, this is achieved just by getting away from partners and hectic homes. But much will be down to that phenomenon whereby just being out amidst greenery lifts the soul.

I don’t know how this works. It’s an atavistic phenomenon perhaps. Maybe it’s how we’re meant to be: wild; savage. Doesn’t sound much like me. I like being out in the wild. But I also like tea and scones.

Let’s not analyse it too much. Let’s, instead, go for a walk. Come on, I’ll take you on mine. Better change out of these high heels. Yes you, sir.

I’m not telling you where we are. Let’s call it Rabadoon, a pleasant fantasy land that happens to exist. There’s snow on the ground so we’re well wrapped up: long, thick underpants made from old velvet curtains; knee-high socks turned over wellie-tops; troosers with polar fleece lining; an anorak developed for US Air Force personnel in the Arctic; fluffy fleece; neck-warmer; woolly, Scandi-style hat that covers the ears; gloves the size of Wales.

It’s freezing outside, but I’m toasty. We waddle forth, down the hillside road then through the village. In summer, I’ll often speak to three or four people, if they’ve been unable to hide in time. Today, no-one is abroad. Indeed, we won’t see another soul the whole walk.

True, we’ve left it late and it’ll be dark soon. But, still, there’s usually a dog-walker or two.

We leave the village by a woodland path that runs beside the road, then we turn away and upwards, to a broader woodland way. There’s a slope on one side and a deep, dark, natural pine wood on the other. Sometimes, I go in there. But usually I’m too scared. It’s eerie; perfectly still; snow doesn’t penetrate; I feel I’m intruding; I’m careful not to break branches in the hope the trees will accept me.

On past the holiday chalets, with their fantastic views of the sea and mountains. The moon is out already, making the snow-covered peaks luminescent. Back into other woodland we go, though this is more open because the huge, deciduous trees need elbow room.

Down the hill we come to a gate that takes us into the castle gardens, which are also mostly wooded. Over the little humped wooden bridge and past the castle ruins, we come to my haven, an arbour overlooking sea and mountains. Here I engage in my actual profession: wave-watching. I don’t know what I expect the sea to do. Break into song perhaps.

It’s Rabadoon, after all. But I just like to see it rising and falling, older than time, still here long after I’ve been incinerated.

Brrr! Terrible thought. To comfort me, a friendly robin lands on the fence and asks how I’m doing. I’m fine, actually. And how are you, readers? Feeling better? Naw?

Well, nae wonder, you’ve been sitting there in the hoose, just pretending you’re oot wi’ me.

Come now, wellies on: prepare to stravaig forth. Tell your loved ones that, while you may be some time, you’ll be back in time for tea and scones.

Bubble trouble

I’LL be quite candid with you here and confess I rarely drink champagne. It’s generally quaffed in celebration of something and, apart from Hibs winning the Scottish Cup in 2016, I cannot think of anything in my life that might have occasioned, you know, joy.

Even then, I celebrated that great footer triumph – the last time I cried openly – by drinking 10 pints of beer. Champagne, on the other hand, might have made me tiddly.

However, there does exist a photograph of me with a Hebridean friend one New Year, where we each have a glass of beer, whisky and champagne before us. Our respective partners merely have champagne, and not even in a half-pint glass like ours.

The photograph was passed among friends and occasioned admiration by men and condemnation by women. Why such a divide? Did the females think the champagne looked un-chilled? Did someone tip them off that we’d added brandy to it to give it some oomph?

Still, the condemnation we received was nothing compared to that handed out to members of the House of Lords this week, when it was revealed they’d quaffed 200 bottles of Prosecco (isn’t that a soft drink?) and champagne in 2020, despite the venerable democratic institution sitting for only 113 days.

That doesn’t sound like much. And, anyway, surely their lordships always have something to celebrate.

If I sat in the House of Lords, I’d cry openly with joy every day and drink champagne out of pint glasses.