just happened to be:

Just happened to be in a pub on the Outer Hebridean island of Benbecula. It was only five to nine on Saturday evening but the publican was ringing the bell for last orders as the following day was the Sabbath. Occupants of the fume-filled saloon bar picked up their glasses and walked through a doorway to the lounge bar. Here, in the southern, Catholic part of the island, the night would continue into the small hours.

I would not be staying for long because I had to get to Lochboisdale in South Uist by 11.30 to catch the ferry to Oban. For the last week I had been camping on a patch of heather outside the croft of Moira and her husband Willy the Muc and was now in the pub with them. Fortunately, they had promised me a lift to the ferry. I looked at my watch, wondering if we should leave. Moira announced she was off home, wished me a good journey and told me Willy the Muc would see me to Lochboisdale.

The visit to South Uist had been suggested by Moira’s sister, Eileen, whom I had got to know quite well in Edinburgh and who played the keyboards in a band called the “Kiltless Jocks”. Kiltless often needed a support group at their gigs so I and some friends obliged by forming a group whose lyrics were inspired by the small print of boring official letters, accompanied by an ill-played mandolin. Reaching the third song was generally a great sign of success while audience rejection levels were gauged on a scale of missiles per minute (mpm). Yet by the time we were helped off stage, the way had been unselfishly paved for an hour or so’s Kiltless glory and a rapturous reception from their stubbornly die-hard fans.