Paisley is out of this world

In the first of a new series featuring an array of colourful characters, Lizzie Gilder writes on the Paisley rockateers

The pipes built to a crescendo then stopped. We waited expectantly in the dark. Suddenly, the sky above Bute erupted as the fireworks began.

As the first rockets exploded in the shape of hearts, Lachie and I exchanged glances and laughed at the moon.

It had already been quite a day, quite a summer if the truth be known.

Naturally I had been invited to the wedding being an old family friend and all that. Well, invited might be exaggerating just a wee bit. I'm sure that the actual bit of paper just got lost in the post, as there's no way Stella wouldn't.

I well recall picking her old man up near Polliwilline, all those years ago, when he was hitching home and him bemoaning how long it was taking.

“Aye, this is a right long and winding road”, I said, just as an RAF Tornado flew over the Mull of Kintyre.

“Jet!” I cried.

Family friend from that moment on. Anyway, a combination of my dizzy Moll of Kintyre persona and the fact that Lachie was carrying a huge Tesco bag full of tomatoes he had brought from his greenhouse “For the happy couple” ensured that we baffled our way past the burly Greenockian security men.

“Ach, Let ‘em in” said the one who was thickest set.

Anyway, there we were gazing up into the cosmos as the Campbeltown Pipe Band was preparing to stand down, and wondering idly if the rumour was true about Big Lucky cleaning Zavaroni's chippy out of fish suppers, when this old guy sidles up to us.

“Hi there, Doll. Name's Mick. Did you know th...

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• By : Lizzie Gilder
• In : Outdoor Scotland
• Issue : 11
• Page : 74
• Words : 684