TWO BIRDS, ONE STORY
Fiona Armstrong learns never to trust a peacock
The pretty plumed pair flew off into the distance, never to be seen again
Ilove local news. It is one of the reasons I gave up London and returned to the sticks. Whilst working at ITN I told the nation about momentous happenings: the fall of the Berlin Wall and the release of Nelson Mandela. At the BBC, meanwhile, there was the drama of a kidnapped child and inner-city riots to report on.
When I came back to ITV Border I found myself imparting a different kind of news, telling viewers about the possible closure of a church hall or the growing problem of hogweed on the banks of the River Nith.
It is no matter. Local may be lightweight at times, but it is empowering. We cannot do much about distant wars or rogue nuclear states, but we can make changes in our own communities. Plus, touch wood, local is generally not as devastating as national or international.
Currently making regional headlines in our part of the world is a police appeal to try to trace two peacocks reported missing near Lockerbie. The flighty fowls were last seen early in the morning heading south towards Annan. Just where they are now is anyone’s guess.
But then peacocks are ungrateful birds. My brother and his wife once bought two, at vast expense, to adorn their garden. They did all the right things, keeping the couple in an airy barn for six weeks, feeding and fussing until the darlings got quite used to their surroundings.
They were eventually taking corn from my sisterin-law’s hand, but the day she opened the door to let them out into the sunshine the pretty plumed pair did a grand sweep of the lawn, then they flew off into the distance, never to be seen again. They did not even deign to open their feathers.
Perhaps peacocks are more at home in palaces. Scone has some right regal ones roaming its grounds, but then it is the traditional crowning seat of Scottish kings.
However, we look in vain for these gaudy birds at Holyrood Palace where this month the chief and I get a rather nice invitation to dinner. We are invited by the Pursebearer to be guests of the Lord High Commissioner. As you are, of course. Let me explain more.
Every spring the Church of Scotland holds its General Assembly in Edinburgh. During this time the Lord High Commissioner is the Queen’s personal representative to the church: he addresses the assembly, carries out ceremonial duties, and visits charities and community projects.
For these seven days the Lord High Commissioner is effectively the Queen in Scotland. Only he, or she, can fly the Lion Rampant – and, except for the monarch’s, his is the only car in the country that does not need to have a number plate.
Well, the only legal car. But I digress. This year’s Lord High Commissioner is the Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry. As part of his week, His Grace comes down to Dumfriesshire where I, as Lord Lieutenant of the area, am hosting him.
First we go to Gretna, where he visits three churches which were all built 100 years ago. Then it is on to Moffat, to a home for retired air force personnel. Very apt in a year that marks the centenary of the RAF.
Hence the invitation to dinner. I am in red velvet. The chief wears his kilt – and it reminds him of his army days when he was once ADC to a Lord High Commissioner. That was back in the 1980s. This is here and now. There may be no peacocks, but the evening is a grand one.