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DAN MACKAY: What would Louis have made of the changes over time?


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There was the story of the frogs who called themselves nightingales, writes Dan MacKay.

Mum had decided it would be good for my learning of French at high school to have some first-hand parlez vous francais... So one night, unannounced, I was duly dispatched to Wick Old Parish Church where touring choral songsters were laying on an evening concert.

Turns out that a call had gone out for local people to come forward to offer accommodation to the chirpy youngsters and mum had very kindly volunteered. Merci mon mere!

I hope Ken Wood, my old French teacher isn’t reading this, but, yes, I was enjoying French lessons at school. Back in those days, in the early 70s, it seemed likely that we all had to learn a second language given our growing integration with the European community. And Wick High School did have a very smart, state-of-the-art language lab with all the mod cons. Obviously this was all before the Maastricht and Schengen treaties and the word Brexit had ever been invented. Many still wish it never had!

Anyway, sitting uncomfortably on an unforgiving church pew I endured the nightingales’ concert, or to give them their proper name Les Rossignols... not exactly my preferred music genre. I was more into Marc Bolan, T Rex and Slade at the time.

There’s a song about a nightingale singing in Berkeley Square. All very dated. Romance is in the air. There’s mention of dancing feet and Fred Astaire, a lingering moon and evening enchantment. Well, Les Rossignols were nothing like that! At the end of their gig I was allocated some wee chap from somewhere across La Manche and we walked back through the dark and dank murk to my folk’s gaff in Willowbank, itself a beacon of sunshine in an otherwise desultory northern wasteland.

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I’m pretty sure both my parents were inebriated, if not outright sozzled, by the time wee Louis (to give him a name) was introduced to chez nous. The poor wee petit garcon... somehow, he seemed oblivious.

Next day, on a brilliant, bright and breezy Sabbath morn we explored the clifftops around the North Head. He seemed enthralled by the sea air and the cacophonous Scorries – nothing like Les Rossignols!

Back at la maison Willowbank mon mere was preparing the Sunday roast. I tried to diplomatically inform her as she was serving up that le petit Louis was un vegetarian to which she emphatically retorted: “Don’t be ridiculous!”. It seemed to translate well and a hearty dejeuner was enjoyed by all…

And now some 50 years later I wonder if Louis is a full-blown carnivore or did he go the other way and enshrine militant veganism?

What would he have made of our post Brexit isolationism? Would he ever have recognised the entrenched belief that we Brits had somehow paid more into the EU coffers that we ever got back in return?

I imagine him an after-dinner speaker recalling a long distant Highland journey and, perhaps, now extolling the virtues of the North Coast 500. How would he describe his time in Wick, I wonder?

Is he still singing his heart out?

I googled the nightingale’s singing. It’s certainly beautiful and quite powerful. It reaches a shrill, yet melodic crescendo. C’est magnifique! One description describes a “frog-like alarm call”... Zut alors!


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