Brexit should be called Braxit. It is all about British access to this and that.
If there is one thing the Brexit brouhaha has taught us, it is the importance of getting access. The whole shebang is about whether we have, or continue to have, access to markets, access to good tariffs, access to fishing grounds and access to travel wherever we like. That is really what it’s all about.
Having access to many areas of these Hebridean islands which is unfettered and unrivalled is a joy. The stunning views, the majestic hills and, of course, the golden beaches.
Island beaches are regularly credited with being the most litter free, being the quietest and boasting the most crystal-clear waters of any in the country, in the whole of Europe and around the entire world. They are up there with legendary Bondi Beach, Copacabana and Waikiki.
We even have wonderful beaches around the islands that have got a Global Outstanding Assessment (GOA). Reef, Scarista, Luskentyre and so on. When a beach has a GOA it is recognised around the world. The GOA proves it is not just a beautiful place, but you will not be shouldered by hordes of other holidaymakers. Ah, peace.
And what’s this? There are claims that Lord Lucan has been spotted. Having done a runner back in 1974 after his nanny was found apparently murdered, he has been wanted since then.
Some years ago, there were reports that seemed a bit confused. It was said that he was in Goa. Had they got that mixed up and did they mean that he is in a GOA? Could Lord Lucan have been hiding out by a beach with a Global Outstanding Assessment?
The jet-black hair, the chiselled jaw, those famously swarthy looks. He would have fitted in perfectly running a B&B or making tweedy craft products in Scarista on the west coast of Harris, where many guys are renowned for their dashing Latino good looks.
That’s a fact, apparently. But the late nanny’s son now claims to have tracked down Lord Lucan, who must now be in his mid-80s, to the west coast of… Australia.
I doubt if that’s him. Lord Lucan wouldn’t have fitted in Down Under. My money is on Lucky Lucan having access to all that Luskentyre Beach has to offer.
Mind you, I am struggling with certain access myself. What a hassle it is to change to another email provider. If you need to do it, get someone who knows how, because setting up a new password is a bit of a nightmare.
Email: Please enter your new password.
Me: mrs x.
E-mail: Sorry, your new password must be more than eight characters.
Me: mrs x is grumpy.
Email: Sorry, your new password must contain one numerical character.
Me: mrs x is 1 grumpy wife.
Email: Sorry, your new password must not contain blank spaces.
Me: mrsxis1grumpywife.
Email: Sorry, your new password must contain some uppercase characters.
Me: MrsXIs1GrumpyWife.
Email: Sorry, your new password must contain more punctuation.
Me: Help!!MrsXIs1GrumpyWife!!
Email: Sorry, that password is already in use.
Me: Aaaarrgh.
There is, however, some access that is not permitted here on Lewis – at least by some. I am talking about commercial premises which are not open seven days a week. Some are open on Sundays nowadays, but the majority tend to stay firmly shut. That can be a bit inconvenient for city dwellers who are used to seven-day access to everything.
An example of that was a man from Aberdeen who was here recently. Aberdonians, of course, are usually mild-mannered and very polite, but this fellow was the exception to that.
He was a bit loud and did not seem to care about pushing his way around in the narrow aisles of a chemist in Stornoway the other Saturday. Some of the patrons did not quite know what he was muttering on about. Fit like? He doesn’t actually look that fit, they whispered.
The Aberdonian was moaning to anyone who would listen that the island weather had given him the flu after he arrived on Friday.
He had to rush to the doctor so he had a prescription for antibiotics. Then he says to the wee woman behind the counter: “Whit time do youse close on Sunday, quine?”
In a flash, she replies: “Oh, we don’t close on Sundays, sir.”
So, on Sunday morning, he goes to pick up his prescription only to find a Closed sign hanging on the door of the chemist. He was outraged at having to trek back to his digs, sniffling and coughing.
On Monday morning, just as the staff unlocked the door, the Aberdonian ran up.
“Come here, you,” he shouted at the woman who had served him on Saturday.
He said: “You said that you never closed on Sundays, but when I was here yesterday you were closed. Why did you lie to me?”
The kindly Free Church pharmacist looked at the loud cove and said: “No, we did not close yesterday. How could we? We never even opened.”