Can it really have been more than a year since the wonderful weekend away in Ullapool? Could this year's event surpass last year's in wonderfulness? On a day when blue skies promised much, two parties made their way to Gairloch a day early.
After some initial confusion as to whether Strathearn Harriers were registered as a group licensed to cohabit on site, wooden bus shelters (described erroneously - by shamelessly stealing North American native culture - as 'wigwams') were allocated to those unable to put up a tent. Whilst the bus timetable from the shelters seemed somewhat sparse, there was at least the consolation of a sea view. The technically competent campers were conversely allocated to a beautiful field close to the beach blessedly out of sight of the the bus traffic.
Settling in well, our two early-day ladies reacted positively when asked by an aged passing paparazzi if they were up for a bit of canoe-dling. One lady thought that a multiple two-fingered gesture was adequate respost whilst the other merely clenched her fists and teeth at the thought. Already the excitement is apparent.
With the sun gently heading for the hills, the last Thursday arrivals pitch up and demonstrate how one vehicle can spread canvas across the landscape in no time at all. An old dog welcomes young friends from last year as he gently nodded off to sleep. They encourage him to shake the sand from his coat and prove he can still run like a good 'un. All present are encouraged that the dog's owners are comfortable about the possibility of him dying whilst enjoying his last run; he's had a dog's life.
And so to Friday morning. A run is proposed; this is a Harriers weekend after all so what more appropriate? Any reluctance is swiftly cast aside as three keen energetic young cyclists are joined by two fit and energetic sets of parents. This group kindly offers to escort an OAP across the road then reveal their true intent by forcing this invalid carriage-less senior citizen up a painful and (apparently) picturesque hilly road. This cruel and unusual practice, normally banned in civilised countries, inevitably results in the OAP suffering embarrassing bodily breakdown necessitating the administration of potentially life-giving herbs to his afflicted body parts. Rescuing his health by the medicinal waters flowing swiftly towards the nearby community, it is to be hoped the locals boil their drinking water.
And the sun shone. So, running and torturing OAPs over, it's off to the beach for fun and frolics on the sand. A game of beach cricket was swiftly established and the youngest member of the group given first innings. Unsuspected, this youngster is the reincarnation of W G Grace and promptly despatches a carelessly bowled loosener into The Yonder. Fortunately, the peak fitness that epitomises all Harriers is brought into play and the ball is returned before it reaches Skye.
Relaxing later after a gourmet lunch, the Beach Chef observes the quality of the sport on offer with all the natural seriousness, intensity and technical appreciation that women normally bring to watching cricket. A slight doubt nonetheless arises as she wonders about her daughter's whereabouts after the feverish digging by other children earlier.
As the cricket progresses, the team decides to enter this fine example of the photographer's art into the Club 'Spot The Ball' competition. It is hoped the resulting income (and the fact no-one's got any chance of winning) will boost Club funds significantly.
Inevitably, though, the cricket match starts to turn a little sour as one of the fathers starts his innings. First ball, his wife takes a startlingly brilliant catch at short mid-on. It is then pointed out to her that the rules of Beach Cricket clearly state that "A man can't be out first ball." Secondly "No man can be out to a catch taken by a female." Thirdly, "I've got the bat, so there!"
With the friendly end to the cricket game, exhaustion from prolonged summer exposure to parents causes one youngster to collapse. His apparently unsympathetic parent simply uses him to wipe the sand off his feet whilst confirming the winner of The Most Hideous Running Race T-shirt competition is indeed the Alloa half marathon handout. The youngster is about to be given a lesson in 'How to use your calories creatively'.
Tiring of foot-wiping (and, perhaps, of life), Alloa HM father decides to make an attempt on the hitherto vacant 'First to Canoe Round Skye' title. Sensibly, he co-opts a qualified doctor (well, he says he's qualified) and they set off. Typically, perhaps, he mistakes the much smaller and nearer Longa Island for the longer island and, braving the completely calm and peaceful waters of Caolas Beag, the two intrepid mariners slowly vanish into the distance.
As a breathless and almost entirely oblivious world takes no notice, a heavenly sunburst seems to bring an other-worldly blessing on the venture. The extent of this brave and possibly foolhardy venture, following as it does in the footsteps (so to speak) of countless generations of other brave mariners, is difficult to comprehend.
Even the dog shows his concern.
But lo! The bravest of the brave return unscathed and undamaged in mind, body and spirit - replete with tales of adventure, strange creatures with whiskers and gleaming tails, the cries of unknown wheeling seabirds and how The Other Side of the island, hidden from the eyes of land-locked humans for all time, looks exactly the same as the side we see every day!! Mysteries unravelled, indeed. One child is given the latest news from The Sea; Good News, mermaids are real; Bad News, they're all dead.
So to Friday evening. One couple are spotted who clearly have absolutely no idea how to set up their trailer tent so it's level. When their error is pointed out to them, the wife realises why she keeps waking up lying on top of her husband. The husband just smiles and drinks more wine.
Back to the beach. Crowds gather for the Friday evening event that will launch the Harriers' weekend. The atmosphere is electric.
As the serious party animals arrive, one explains how the blue tumbler is the normal receptacle he uses when caught short on the beach but that really he prefers the clear wineglass design. One lady covers her mouth in horror as she thought he was drinking whisky. The other two ladies rest content in the knowledge that their drink of choice is coloured red, though each wonders if the colour in the other's glass is from grapes or haemoglobin.
In the creche, a mother introduces her daughter to a packet of helpful white powder as she explains about the current source of the family's financial security. The daughter is clearly more concerned about the transaction being captured on camera; she need not fear as the photographer will be receiving an appropriate reward later. Another youngster demonstrates the latest moves spotted on Britain's Got Talent, albeit to a largely indifferent audience of opera lovers.
In an outlying section of the creche, a youngster with extraordinarily long legs enjoys covering those limbs with sand. He will surely grow up to become a basketball star - or a champion Munro marathon runner like his father.
Meanwhile, the males in the group have crowded round one of the fathers who is explaining how heat may be generated by rubbing two sticks together. The older boys ask if this is a metaphor.
Realising that this is not perhaps going as well as planned, the would-be fire-raiser suggests that it may help if the group put hands to faces as a supplication to the Fire God.
Minutes later, after the men abandon their futile attempts, a group of females takes over to show a lone male child how it should be done. Female group dynamics require careful discussion before any action is attempted. The female children listen and learn.
Whilst men fail with fire, a group of women discuss the latest Pilates moves. One demonstrates, one gets ready for her part as Little Red Riding Hood in the forthcoming Harriers' pantomime, one is even more confused than usual, one is distracted and one requests clarification. Normal women's group dynamics obviously apply.
Meanwhile, a lady unaware of her wineglass's earlier contents asks if she should be concerned by the approaching tide. Her immediate companion, who has already wisely removed her shoes, thinks not, but is ready anyway for a quick retreat. The only man present recognises that looking confident and unconcerned is always a good posture for a doctor, even when the future is unknown. The ladies wisely ignore him. The shy lady who averts her gaze from the camera's ever-revealing lens knows however that the good doctor is about to be floored by two charging and out-of-control children. Thank goodness they're not hers (as if).
In the group next door, two men try to puzzle out why dogs always sniff other dogs' bottoms and, where available, men's unmentionables. The object of their puzzlement merely continues its role as Guide Dog to the local alkies, a number of whom insist on accosting the cameraman for more booze. He is unmoved, however. Four others in the group are certain they've spotted a midge, causing one to think a hood is guaranteed protection. His female companion mishears and suggest that other forms of protection are superior - and available to him at a later hour.
After the wild party that was Friday's beach event, Saturday sees the serious business of extreme exercise on the agenda. The Big Guns are to remain on guard at the camp whilst The Monday Crowd (and Guests) enjoy an early run along the road from Badachro. After the usual uncertainty about detailed arrangements for transport, all is happy as a healthy contingent of a dog and 14 runners (including two stalwarts who cycle to the start) assemble ready for a gentle amble towards Redpoint.
The group sets off in fine form but this soon stresses our brave and plucky (somewhat injured) lady cyclist who is promptly rescued by a pretend golfer and her Guide Dog. The warmth of the northern sun soon helps restore comfort to the cyclist's aching limbs.
Her male companion meanwhile runs on in blissful ignorance of his partner's impending distress. A return to practice for Leg 3 of the triathlon finds that freewheeling on foot doesn't really work well.
At a pre-planned break by the local bathing pool, the group is about to pose for another historic photo-shoot when the OAP in the party becomes unnecessarily excited by a suggestion of skinny-dipping from four ladies keen to see what George is really made of. Thankfully, his partner declines on his behalf on the grounds of taste.
As the road makes its gentle way uphill, a group of three ladies is caught short and they decide to make a race of it after their ablutions. This moment is remarkably caught on camera as it is a pose normally involving bathroom sanitory fittings.
The ladies eventually catch up with most of the others as the gentleman cyclist makes it very clear that 'we're waiting here for them and that's final!' All the ladies are impressed by his masculine determination, firm jaw and bald head. They obey him shyly and obligingly.
Happy at this turn of events, two of the latecomers beam happily at the camera and ask to be included in the show of complete admiration for male power and domination.
Through the desert-like conditions continue the brave runners when a change in the weather threatens as it takes a funny turn - haar, haar, haar. Luckily the shepherd and the dog keep the flock on the run.
Thinking the location of the camera is where lunch will be provided, the three ladies raise their arms in Olympian triumph - though one apparently isn't quite sure she lady-shaved this morning.
So, to the sounds of Johnny Mercer's Cheek to Cheek, four fine examples of the tailor's art are recorded on the final leg towards the turn for home. Can a fashion award be much delayed?
With five of the party taking more extravagant routes back, the remainder enjoy a lull in the proceedings at the top of the hill overlooking Opinan as George demonstrates the right way to relax and enjoy the scenery instead of just rushing past it unappreciatively. Kirsty takes the 'hands-on-hips' posture of the somewhat concerned companion so beloved of men the world over.
So to the final leg back towards the beautiful site that is Little Sands, seen here across the Mediterranean azure sea that pretends - pretends not to be freezing cold. Shoulders back, posture upright, the ladies are a credit to the keep-fit activities of Strathearn.
At the insistense of some, regrettably this report forcibly contains a number of images that may shock. For this we apologise. Nonetheless, this edited version of an infinitely more shocking original does at least excise body parts that could cause heart palpitations amongst the less robust members of the female population. Modesty prevails at last.
Having stopped briefly to record the beauties of the area, the photographer spots two members of the group ahead through his telescopic lens. Training his directional microphone onto them, he overhears the following.
"Shall we run the rest of the way?" "Who cares? No-one's watching. Let's just say we ran it all." "Good idea. We can run from the corner before we come into view then go hell for leather."
The photographer contemplates if his silence has a price they'll pay. Probably not, he realises.
Nonetheless his mood is mellow as he contemplates nature in all its majesty.
Later on, he might even push the boat out a bit.
Safely back in the Harriers' camp, the group are able to let the Big Guns set off on their foray to conquer the Munro (980m) that is the Slioch. All is the usual peace, calm and effortless efficiency as the BGs assemble, leap into their waiting chariots and take the High Road to Kinlochewe. Tales of faultless derring-do will doubtless emerge in due time.
With (most of) the men away, the ladies set about the day's tasks. Another day of unavoidable toil and drundgery whilst the men go off and blamelessly enjoy themselves doing nothing very useful. The ladies meanwhile complete a long list of outstanding and inevitably time-consuming health and welfare tasks.
Stirred and motivated by the amazing circumnavigation of Longa Island by the two Phillies, three of the brave men remaining with the ladies embark on an equally dangerous and thrilling adventure on the dangerous waters. This shot was taken with an ultra-long distance lens whilst the group manoeuvred in deep and shark-infested waters.
Well, despite being paid to say that, veracity demands that actually....
Stung by comments from the shore, one crew member abandons ship but the other two resolutely return to sea
whilst the beach party looks on in excitement.
One of the ladies turns bookmaker as she takes bets on how far they'll get before they (a) capsize, (b) get seasick, (c) drift out of sight, (d) lose a paddle, (e) return triumphantly with a boatload of fish. No odds are offered on a sad, slow return without fish as this is regarded as a certainty.
Turning to more worthwhile pastimes, a mother and child are persuaded to pose for a fresh Harriers' Spot The Ball competition picture. After hours of preparation, the ball is finally secured in place using amazingly thin wire fastened both to the youngster's hat and the mother's bat. The watching beach group are forbidden from entering the competition. The prize was eventually won by an underage entrant so no prize payout was made.
After the BGs return from their exploits up Slioch (about which we perhaps remain to hear the full story), discussion turns to the events of the evening. A barbecue is agree near to the bus shelters on the grounds that midges will be less pesky. Yeh, right.
The Barbecue. Saturday evening. Almost the Summer Solstice. Almost at the Arctic Circle. Long hours of daylight. Hardly gets dark before it's getting light again. As if there weren't enough reasons for youngsters to deny its bedtime... One older youngster risks an early direction to his room as he contemplates a modest slap on his mother's whatsit. Thankfully, sense prevails and his parent blissfully continues to prepare his supper of parcelled pheasant and badger burgers. The watching girls, however, find the lark's wing and hedgehog road-kill-in-a-bun of questionable taste.
Attempting to thwart the persistent midges, one group settles downwind of the barbecue fires and breathes deeply. A fire-fighter of local renown wonders if the fire has got out of hand and if he should apply his know-how. His sunglasses-wearing partner is confident though that he really does know how and may demonstrate later.
A loving couple are momentarily distracted from each other by their fellows as a lady Harrier wrestles with the tightening camera crotch strap that seems to have got caught on a zip somewhere. Children continue blissfully with arm-throwing and so on.
As the evening wears on, the mirth and merriment are evident on the faces of all concerned. An enquiring youngster asks his behatted mother "Why is this all so boring, mum? Can't we do what we do at home and go into town and drink Buckfast?". Mother explains that Father is only part way through his required 5000 calories for the day and needs to concentrate. Son #2 snores.
In the world that is the emergency services, fire-fighters are The Elite. In the presence of lesser mortals, a lady fire-fighter examines the end of her nose in expressive distaste for the hoi polloi who surround her. A red-jacketed ex-Army paragon clearly finds this attitude distasteful. Moments later, an ugly scene is barely averted by the tasteful intervention of the Elder Statesman of the party with an "Eh oop, chuck, wazzer marrer then? Not slid down the old pole for a while have we?".
With this, all is immediately restored to peace and calm save for a lingering possibility that the ex-Army man has his old bowel problem again.
With the last embers of a glowing sun fading into peaceful somnolence, the midges mount one last attack but are repelled by the sight of one of the group's new Ascot creation. Some difference of opinion emerges amongst onlookers as to the need for the wearer to see out of the creation. On balance, the majority prefer the style whereby the lady's face is hidden from general view.
After a searching question and answer session amongst all members of the group, it is agreed that the lady's headgear is outclassed as the most vile clothing on view by this 1980s tribute to the Goddess of Victory. Several ladies volunteer to rip this awful ensemble off the wearer's body and he was later seen being pursued half-naked by several hopefuls into the sand dunes where no doubt unseemly behaviour was undertaken.
[Editor's Note: The number of hopefuls was later certified as zero.]
Sunday morning. The end of the event. Well, not quite. Our Blessed Organiser has one last entertainment for those ready for it. To Melvaig where a Hare & Tortoise relay race would run. One Hare, one Tortoise per team. Assemble at Melvaig Inn then start from the parking place up the road. Tortoises start, then Hares. Or is it the other way round? Or is it both at once? Where do we meet? Whatever. Another triumph of Strathearn Harriers planning and communication.
Anyway, eventually almost everyone assembles, the Hares hare off and the medical attendants make the blood transfusion service available. Here a kindly nurse carries refridgerated blood packs to the waiting ambulance ready for George's arrival. Women pray. Men watch.
Slowly, the Tortoises meander together for some sort of start. Then they're off!! Cathy & Liz amble off into the yonder as they natter about the latest in comfort Lycra. Fiona and a child interloper form a second natter squad. An OAP quickly vanishes as though he is running backwards whilst a senior fire-fighter is distracted fighting fires.
Suddenly and startlingly, runners appear coming the other way. The Hares have completed their excursion into The Beyond and are racing towards potential triumph at the finish. Soon all the Hares but one are safely home. Worry furrows the brows of those who don't moisturise. Then smiles light up the fizzogs of those just happy their efforts are at an end.
But lo - what have we here? The last Hare! Injury has afflicted the poor runner and women gather round in a concerned and possibly genuine fashion. Applications are applied, poultices are poulticed, plasters are plastered but the brave man will hear none of it. He will face his torments bravely and still drive to the pub for a beer. No sacrifice is greater.
But where oh where is our last Tortoise. Fire-fighter that he is, his friends nonetheless are given to imagining bad things may have happened. He may have walked - oh, the shame. He may have accepted a lift from one of the many passing vehicles (but then, there aren't any). Maybe he's still running in the wrong direction having missed the turning point.
Then - miracle of miracles - he appears! Demonstrating the physique that has made him the envy of the Turkish Professional Wrestling circuit and the doyen of Sumo everywhere, our fire-fighting hero grasps the triumph that is the coveted and treasured Wooden Spoon. We are all stirred.
When the emotions have started to subside, the reality of achievement sinks in. Despite having lost one shoe in the bogs and run three miles semi-barefoot, our brilliant winning Hare playfully gooses his partner Tortoise. They do not win the overall trophy but are bonded brothers-in-bravery together for all time.
Resisting the pressure to make a boring speech, the winning Hare-Tortoise pairing pose shyly for the paparazzi and promise to donate their winnings to charity. It is pointed out to them the race carries no pecuniary advantage and that, in contrast, the first round at the pub is on them.
So to the pub for lunch where some-one claiming to have had some connection to Pink Floyd provides succour. It is thought that mention of Pink Floyd is reference to some piper at the gates of dawn or maybe building a wall but perhaps that's just a momentary lapse of reason. Whatever, the food and drink were very pleasant.
But one family happily scoffing did mislay a wife/mother, though their countenances failed to display distress such was their collective iron self-control. Perhaps searching for work, as advised by Norman Tebbit so many years ago, to support what seems to be an increasingly feckless husband prone to such japes as riding a child's bike at unnecessarily high speed on a public road.
During the afternoon, however, a female cyclist bearing an uncanny resemblance to the missing woman was spotted on the A832. It is thought that the white van following her has some connection with the trafficking of illegal English immigrants and may be connected to this woman. Police have been alerted. More may come to light in due course of time. Watch this space for further developments.
So ends one more brilliant Strathearn Harriers social event. Can those who yet again missed out continue to stay away next year? Find out in about twelve months......
Can it really have been more than a year since the wonderful weekend away in Ullapool? Could this year's event surpass last year's in wonderfulness? On a day when blue skies promised much, two parties made their way to Gairloch a day early. 
Having stopped briefly to record the beauties of the area, the photographer spots two members of the group ahead through his telescopic lens. Training his directional microphone onto them, he overhears the following.
