Hoots & Havers by James Irvine Robertson

This squad of marching Jimmies, pictured here behind a Saltire in a local village, gave me a bit of a turn the other day. Had the Referendum extended its reach when I thought I was a comfy thousand miles away from all the strife and hassle?
It turned out that a local...

 

Since we are surrounded by Frenchmen who think Scots are mad or English expats who reckon they’d be better off without us, I rely on online newspapers for coverage of the referendum.
So, when I was back in Scotland a couple of weeks ago for the first time in two years...

 

The village in which we live is not large, containing at its heart only six inhabited houses. The commune, perhaps the equivalent of the parish, holds a hundred souls. And at this time of year we make whoopee. My fourth of the annual local chasse lunches took place...

 

I found myself acting as an assessor in the local polling station for the Euro election. We ticked off the voters as they came in, let them browse across the table holding 25 bits of paper each extolling the virtues of one of the candidates. They would take a sheaf of...