Duncan Harley

I was over in Huntly earlier today and picked up a copy of the Northern Scot. It’s a splendid paper and winner of more awards than I care to remember. Full of local news, it carries a good spread of feature articles. In last week’s edition, which was the one I bought, there are tales of fiddlers from Fochabers, firefighters from Buckie and, of course a leader describing how Elgin High Street is about to take on the mantle of ‘Best High Street in Britain’ . There is a new editor in post now and the broadsheet has shrunk to a tabloid. But, in the big scheme of things – and I am biased since a previous editor gave me my first start in print – the paper sure beats the hell out of most weekly rags. On page 34 there is a poignant piece by Jill Stewart – a local historian – detailing the endgame of those folk from Moray unlucky enough to have died as a result of enemy action during the first war. A lad from Findochty – died of wounds in a French hospital. A Lossie man killed at...

When I first moved to the capital of the Garioch I was warned by a Tesco checkout operative that George Square was a noisy place to be. Backing on to the Academy playing-fields the AB51 post-code seemingly attracted screaming lunchtime children and lost cricket balls into the adjoining gardens. I recall saying something like “I really like the sound of children enjoying themselves, after all I was once one myself.” The till operative seemed bemused at my reply and has since been retired – or so I am led to believe. I did enjoy the daily spectre of lost balls and, on occasion even got to throw them back into the field at the bottom of my garden. In fact, on one occasion, a trio of enthusiastic cricketers rang the front door-bell intent on retrieving the object of their desire. “Is it ok if we go into your garden to look for our ball” they asked. “Of course, go for it!” came the reply. I have not seen the lads since and hope that they both found the ball and made it...