Scottish Terrier.

Every weekend you'd have found us out walking in the hills. Spot, a slightly dubiously breed of Scottish terrier, and me, Jack Higgins. Not the actor, God no, just old humble me. Last weekend, I was breaking in my new walking boots, or to be more precise, they were breaking me in. Sixty-five bloody quid they cost from a trendy outdoor-type shop in the city.

They even have a small made up terrain of granite slabs so you can walk up and down looking at yourself in a big strategically placed mirror. Why any one would want to know how they are going to look as they roam about in the hills covered in muck beggar’s belief. Do they think they might perhaps by chance meet an unimportant member of the royal family? Even if they did, do you think the unimportant member of the royal family would care about what you look like? I don’t bloody think so some how. I went for the sturdiest boots I could afford, ones that will last me until my dying day.

‘No dear,’ I said to a pretty looking female assistant who had a white tooth smile, and a bum that resembled two boiled eggs in a bag. ‘I don’t want to walk up your pile of granite looking at my self in the big strategically placed mirror, but … hey, you feel free, if that’s what takes your fancy.’

‘That’ll be sixty-five pound.’ she replied rather abrupt.

I was shocked. After all, I was a paying customer and a bit of courtesy doesn’t go a miss. In my day, we were brought up believing civility costs nothing. It is a sad sign of the times I suppose. Young people nowadays have no respect for their elders. It was a pity, before that she was a garrulous wee thing. This one could yap the lugs of a donkey, I was thinking to myself. I could have admired that bum all day.

Where was I? Oh yes, last weekend, and our walk through the hills. A nice place, the Corrieshalloch Gorge, its south east of Ullapool. The gorge is over two hundred feet deep in places and it has a wee bridge designed by the same man who built the Forth Rail Bridge, Sir John Fowler (1817-98), he liked the place so much he bloody bought it. A wee bit of local trivia for you. I’m good at quizzes, my head is full of inconsequential nonsense.

After a while I was tired, so me’n’the dog stopped for a wee rest. I’m getting older you see, the arthritis plays up after a while and these wee breaks are more frequent than they used to be. I sat on a rock, rolled a fag and let the autumn sunshine warm my face.

Spot, he was acting his usual mischievous, chasing a Grouse he had disturbed. He was running around in circles like a headless chicken, leaping through the heather, popping his head up now and again to look for his prey, who had enough sense by the way, and had simply flown away to safety.

I’ll miss that wee dog, aye, he was good company. A bit on the thick side, mind you, but a good wee companion who kept me amused. The wee scamp never did do anything he was told, and I just knew the idiot was going to go flying into the gorge.

I shouted as loud as I could! ‘Spot! Stop ya wee eejit,’ but no, as bloody usual he knew best and just kept running. Yelp, my god you should have heard him. He had no chance, not with a one hundred foot drop leading to a rocky bottom. I left him where I found him, there was nothing I could do, he was splattered, and no bloody danger I was carrying him back to the car. I did retrieve the collar, well, it cost ten bloody pound. I went home for lunch, my favourite, Baxter’s broth.

I’ll get another dog, I don’t like walking on my own and there is no way I’m spending sixty-five bloody pound on a pair of walking boots so they can lie in the bottom of a bloody cupboard under the stairs. No, I’ll go to the dog pound at the weekend, and see if I can pick one with half a brain this time. A Collie? Their reasonably intelligent. Aye, I’ll see if I can pick up a Collie that some cruel so’n’so has got fed up with, and dumped it in the street.