Hoots & Havers by James Irvine Robertson

M. Le Maire is prodding me towards becoming a Frenchman, not for the good of my soul but because he could then dump some job on my shoulders that is reserved for the Chosen Ones. I looked online for the practical advantages of becoming French and there seemed to be none, bar a vote in...

 

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...

 

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...