Clear communication will save climate – and our tumble dryer

It’s a breath of fresh air seeing teenage Highland crofters having a field day

Asked to interview crofting types at a get-together in Fort William at the end of last week, I was well up for it. More than once have I been there, with that constant shroud of cloud on the big Ben and a veritable river gushing down Belford Road. As I headed there on Friday, it was chucking it down, and it was still pelting the Berlingo as I rolled into the grounds of the Ben Nevis Hotel.

Maybe it’s a sign of my age, of course, but nowadays crofters aren’t all the clothcapped bodachs they once were. Modern and business-like, they are. There are many lady agriculturists, too, who are well into advanced animal husbandry.

Speakers used clear communication to explain how the climate emergency was something everyone must consider. Crofters were well up for achieving net zero. It’s fascinating.

Also fascinating was Lochinver lad Struan Macdonald. He was voted Young Crofter of the Year from a strong field (see what I did there?). He’s just 16 years old.

He told me, in the serious tone of all Assynt crofters, he’d his heart set on being more of a lamb producer, getting cattle and selling meat around the north-west. When I was 16, the only thing I was set on producing was excuses to get out of swotting for English and maths exams.

Afterwards, at my hotel, there was much wailing in the bar. A veteran member of staff was leaving.

She’d worked there for about 26 years, almost since the place had opened, and was finishing her shift and saying her goodbyes.

Clearly, her departure for a new life with her man, to work in similar premises in the central belt, was hitting some staff hard. It was moving. I may have reached for my hanky – just to blow my nose, you understand.

Maybe she didn’t want a fuss, but I’d have thought there would have been more

of a do for her. Twenty-six years, eh? It just shows, there are very human stories going on all around us all the time, if we’d just take a moment to stop and listen.

The warm tributes I heard from colleagues who had worked with her tugged at my heartstrings. I wish her well down south.

Back north, things hadn’t gone well for us the day before. It’d been raining on Thursday in Stornoway. We’d not been able to dry clothes on the line. The tumble dryer was going flat out, and it was hot dogs for lunch. Lovely with lashings of English mustard. What do you mean “too hot”?

I strode downstairs to see if the bangers were ready, and I immediately detected an acrid burning smell. Oh, my gosh. Herself must have forgotten about the pork links. “Hoi, oi, oi. You’re burning the bangers,” I screamed. See? Clear communication is essential at all times.

Grabbing open the oven door, I found four thick pork sausages, still half-cooked, and not even sizzling. So, I dashed to the utility room, and found it was full of thick smoke.

Like a banshee, I roared: “Fire!” Again,

clear, concise communication. Then, through the thick, choking haze, I felt Mrs X push past and, in superwoman mode, she single-handedly unplugged the tumble dryer and scooped it up like a box of cornflakes.

I did my bit by opening the back door. We manhandled the dryer outside and tossed it disgustedly into the downpour.

I’d take it to the dump when I got back. Now, us superheroes could lunch, when the bangers were ready.

Proud we had averted a horrendous fire, I smugly took the early ferry to Ullapool on Friday.

Then, near Drumnadrochit, I got a dirty pic from Mrs X.

It showed our water heater switch in the utility room melted, with dirty, sooty, scorch marks above it.

Heck, that must have been what caught fire – not the flipping tumble dryer.

Mrs X had somehow managed to chuck out a perfectly serviceable tumble dryer. Me? I only did what I was told.

Incredibly, after 24 hours in a deluge, and then a few days to dry out, the slightlydented tumble dryer has now kicked back

into life, and is back doing a great job of my Y-fronts. Yippee. Clear communication saved the day.

We were having those sausages because we had too many.

Thinking she was communicating clearly, Mrs X had sent me to the butcher, saying: “Get six sausages and, if there are any eggs, get a dozen.”

When I got home, she asked: “Why did you get 12 sausages?” I replied: “Why? Because they had eggs.”

I got a dirty pic from Mrs X. It showed our switch had melted

BRIEF ENCOUNTER: Columnist Iain and his Y-fronts were left in a spin when a reliable tumble dryer was thrown out by mistake.