New Statesman Scotland - Worshipping spirits in the wee freeze
"Over the sea to Skye . . ." So goes the famous refrain, conjuring up images of romantic mysticism. Well, there was plenty of mist, but precious little romance when I went to Skye for a long weekend of coarse rugby. Our squad of 20 comprised a motley crew - prop Neil (celebrating his 50th birthday during the trip) at one end of the scale, and a couple of 20-year-old whippersnappers at the other. Waistlines ranged from the unmistakable to the gross, and ability peaked with the hooker Norrie's Melrose Sevens medal (won in his prime) and plummeted a long way down to the rest, who had seldom, if ever, peered out beyond the depths of the 4th XV. But one thing common to all was a rampant thirst that easily surpassed the national average.
We sped to Skye, through the darkness of the West Highland evening, and by midnight, we were downing drams at the croft of the local rugby club secretary - standing room only - and, by three in the morning, we were tucked up on the floor of our five-star village hall in Braes, attuning ourselves for the morrow. Thankfully, palliasses did not take on a whole new meaning. Next morning, after a fitful night for all, our centre, Derek, had to make a delicate call to his office in Edinburgh, reporting in "sick". Using the nearby phone kiosk, his confidence grew as his excuses went down well. That is, until nearby sheep started bleating noisily, which in turn made him worry about his reputation in the office.
Then on to the tournament venue. Perched at an angle on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic, it was utterly devoid of any shelter, and the wind, rain and sleet howled in mercilessly through the enveloping mist. The temperature hovered just above zero, but the wind-chill factor made Siberia seem an attractive alternative. The pitch's condition afforded the opportunity to combine several sports at once - fell running, potholing, mud wrestling, cow-pat dodging and, of course, rugby. Fortified by a bottle of sherry, we played two games, losing one and winning the other.
Having narrowly avoided hypothermia, and refreshed by several swigs of port, the real challenge lay in being the first to get to the showers, five miles away in Portree, as the hot water was limited. Dougie's driving would have put Colin McRea to shame as he secured us pole position, allowing us the childish pleasure of using all the hot water before the others arrived.
A cultural evening of thirst quenching and karaoke then ensued. Encouraged by the easy familiarity that those particular pastimes foster, John, a middle-aged, thickset Glaswegian of receding hairline and ample frame, accompanied by a comely blonde some years his junior, started chatting to us. Now, it so happened that our ancient prop, Neil, was extremely doubtful for the next day's play, a matter of grave concern. Then John's past as a prop began to emerge. As the night wore on, the greater the hue of success his playing career took on. By midnight, and after being plied with copious pints, he was committed to playing for us the next day. Oh, hallelujah! we cried, a real prop. More pints followed, more croaked songs and enough handshakes to exhaust even an American presidential candidate. This was like finding gold dust. Sadly, the dust was blown away at half past two, when the comely blonde partner, who by now was attracting ill-concealed raw interest from some of our squad, informed us in a no-nonsense fashion that there would be no question of her John playing because he had a serious heart condition.
Another engaging feature of the tournament was the involvement of Carrick rugby club from Maybole. Rumour had it that many of their players were converts from Ayrshire junior football - enough to strike a deadly chill into our hearts. Let's just say that their play was robust. Off the pitch, their persuasion was a tad hedonistic. To celebrate their 18-year-old hooker's birthday, they lovingly arranged a team photo with the young lad given pride of place in the front row. Before "cheese", their gnarled captain went to present him with a chocolate cake. Clearly the lad was touched, but not quite how he had ex-pected, because, a pace short of him, the cake was shoved forcefully into his face.
Next day, an equally foul one, our form dipped, and we lost both games. Maybe our preparation lacked something. Another night's carousing and, the following day, 20 stricken livers began the trip back home. And, as luck would have it, that day, the sun decided to shine brightly, allowing us a glimpse of Skye - the first time all weekend.
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