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Day 2, Tuesday 23rd March - words and images
by Carl Biehl
The Search for the Wily Haggis
There was an ominous beginning to the day. At 6:15, I awoke to
the sound of ice crystals angrily bouncing against my windows.
Through the dawn light, I could see the rough and tumble surf
rolling in between the beach and the small islands offshore. The
wind ruffled the soaked wool coat of the ewe and kids on the lawn
as they munched happily on the spring flowers.
With anxiety and trepidation I looked toward the day when I would
finally have the opportunity to hunt the elusive and often treacherous
Haggis. My new friends –
Nancy ...
Eileen ...
Graham ...
Les ...
Lindsay ...
and Ian ...
– had encouraged me to engage the enemy directly and capture
one, or some, in the wild in their native habitat.
As a young man, I had participated in Snipe hunts, but for various
reasons I was unable to catch or even find one. I had much higher
hopes and expectations for the Haggi. It is my understanding that
while quite intelligent and ferocious, they lack agility and dexterity
in cold rainy weather. Sam, our host, assured me that his faithful
canine Haggis-hound, Yoda, was seen tracking an entire glop [quail
come in coveys, Haggi come in glops]. Since I have great respect
for Yoda and his deep affinity and understanding of the force,
I know that the information is true.
To my extreme disappointment, Yoda is no longer permitted to
actively hunt the nasty creatures due to a serious injury by a
cornered mated pair last spring. So it was just me and my mates
on a wide-ranging search across the mountains and valleys of Skye.
After breakfast, Les [with support from Ian] lectured the group
on Resolution, both the New Year’s kind and the Digital
Pictures kind. The explanations are remarkably similar. It was
illuminating is a Zedly sort of way.
We began our Haggis hunt with a crushingly freezing outdoor lunch
near the Scene of the Crime of 3 years ago when I fell in the
river while taking pictures of the arched bridge at Sligachan
The memory alone made my shoes kind of squishy.
Then, with lookouts posted at the corners of our two vehicles,
we headed across the isle toward Talisker to find the elusive
little tasty beasts. We searched…..
And searched….
And searched…
Nancy reported that some unknown creature nipped her on the ankle…
it was written off as tight sox.
With sadness, we moved on to the distillery for a wee dram. While
we all watched assiduously on the way across the hills to Portree,
no one spotted anything. Greatly disappointed, I agreed to drown
my sorrows in a pint in the Portree pub where I sit still…
Well not entirely still, I look over my shoulders and under the
tables for the monstrous yet little delectables.
Next trip, I suppose.
Carl Beihl
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