SOME MEMORIES OF WHITING BAY – by Tommy Robison, formerly of the Police (Prospect) House.

The best of times, without the worst of times, except on the day we left.

Some examples of these, & ad hoc memories are:-

– ferries coming & going in the height of summer, teeming with excited arrivals. My Dad’s job was to stand at the bottom of the village ’triangle’ in front of the house (no point conforming to having a village square), opposite the pier head – now MBS, arms folded, eyes open. And me putting one of his spare Police caps on etc, & standing alongside him, without letting on. He eventually figured out why some folk were laughing, when he looked down, saw me, and I got ’sent’ back to the house.

He never arrested anybody in our time in Whiting Bay, just a ‘quiet’ word, or that fixed stare did the trick.

– still on Polis stuff, the ‘gifts’ that used to arrive throughout the year from the people & organisations he encountered in his work. Cue the Christmas trees from the Forestry Commission, lamb, eggs, milk etc from farmers, fish from elsewhere. Not in today’s world of course, & seen as a thank you in the world of the time. Also remember going with him on the farm inspections.

– the Sunday days off, and the picnics. No company car, but we had the Police van. ‘Police Patrol’ was the black & white fixed sign on the black van, until it was unscrewed for weekend days out to Cleats shore, the Ross etc with a picnic.

– the school Sports Day. On the beach for some events, the rest at Sandbraes. Really made you feel Olympian!

– at school, graduating to the big room from there wee room. And of course, John MacDonald – the greatest teacher of subject and life, ever.

– classmate Alisdair Dunn from Kings Cross. The shiver that ran through my spine the day he got the ‘belt’, first time any of us had seen that. Some were in tears. (‪Tears for Fears?🙈🥳).

– me with net, fishing off the jetty with visiting mainland pals.Trying to push a rowing boat out or haul it in, lost my balance and in I went, ‘way out my depth and I couldn’t swim. Rescued by my pals, and taken across the road to meet my hysterical mum, me soaked and laced with green seaweed. Another ‘reprimand’, and subsequent swimming lessons, in the sea of course……!

– the Maclandish family, next to the school. (Wee pal (Alistair?), commuting to school, courtesy of his Dad’s rowing boat, launched from the Marina to the beach at the school next door – hysterical!

– Hogmanay & the only time alcohol was visible in the house. Mum with her annual Advocat & lemonade. Me banished upstairs, listening to the laughter, the sing songs, fighting to stay awake, and waking to find the party still going ‪at 8am the next morning.

– & of course, the endless summers.

These were indeed the best of times……………..

Thank you, Whiting Bay.