By this he meant interests other than politics and, partially, he meant things for the politician to fill his life with once he or she is no longer a politician – things to do when you have retired, voluntarily or otherwise.

In my own case I have had a "hinterland" since long before I was a politician and it is during the summer recess that this comes to mind.

I cannot overemphasise the stark contrast between Holyrood immediately before the summer recess and the same place on a weekday in late July.

The work – speeches, questions, visitors (including, as I mentioned a fortnight ago, the Queen) – is hectic to say the very least. During the last days of the session, the time when the Scottish Parliament is sitting, most people are pretty much run off their feet.

Early-morning meetings, press releases, "Jamie, could you look in on the cross-party group on..." or "Jamie, can you give the BBC a ring..." and then, quite suddenly, it's all over. Just like that.

The following weeks, the parliament is quiet, save for the pigeons on the roof and the quiet chatter of visitors. For two months, July and August, much of the body politic rests. Some MSPs head away for their holidays, some ministers head abroad on various missions, even the press takes time off. Has there been much in the papers about expenses recently? No, and this is much connected with journalists sunning themselves in warmer climes.

But the constituency is different. While Holyrood rests life goes on; albeit at a gentler pace because some people are away and because the entertainments of summer can divert the mind from the problems of the day. Ask any MSP. The postbag is not so full during the summer.

So this is when I have the time that I am so grateful for, the time to get into the hinterland, both in the dictionary sense and the Denis Healey sense.

In the dictionary sense – "the land behind', as constituents well know – this is when I pack my bag and head off round this colossal constituency.

This weekend features the Halkirk Highland Games, Wick Gala and a quick visit to Auckengill for the broch open day event. After that, for the following week, my wife and I embark all points, north and west. Getting out and about is something that we have been looking forward to for months.

Our travels also combine well with the Healey sense of hinterland. Since boyhood one of my personal interests is, believe it or not, moths and butterflies. I am always on the lookout, not to kill and collect, but simply to identify.

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WHEN visiting Dunnet some years ago I was quite delighted when a knowledgeable person gave me three puss moth caterpillars.

Clearly my interest in lepidoptera had gone before me and I knew, from my childhood, just what spectacular caterpillars these tiny beasties would grow into. I put them carefully into a box, with a few poplar leaves, and took them home.

Thus began the great poplar hunt. To start with, they ate a small part of one fresh leaf a day but, as they grew, so did their appetites.

By mid-August they were the size of my pinkie and eating a surprising amount. It was in the west of Ireland – the caterpillars went with me everywhere – that I found poplars were comparatively scarce. On one particular day I had to drive a considerable number of miles before I found the requisite leaves.

It was worth the effort though. To me, the puss moth caterpillar is the finest of the lot – a magnificent two-tone animal with a scary face and extendable horns that it waves at you when it thinks you might be about to eat it.

They eventually wandered off and pupated and I hope that the experiment was successful in terms of increasing the Easter Ross puss moth population. I would advise anyone interested to take a close look at any poplars when they are next in and around Dunnet.

In closing, my mind turns to the Halkirk Games – the time when my wife was asked to judge the bonny baby competition.

Now, as locals know, this is fraught with danger. Choose a baby from Thurso, and you annoy a good number of Wick families. Vice versa if you choose a Wick baby. My advice at the games was to play it safe and plump for a baby from Watten.

But no, a choice was made – and the wee girl was very pretty. Then the killer question, I asked her mother where she was from.

"Españe!"

Oh! Still, always good to welcome visitors to the Far North.

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