Shots across the bows at festival

By Mike Lowson

Published:

IT WAS a broadside on the quayside, a battle beside the boats that could have turned into a slaughter by the water before you could say “shiver me timbers” or “avast behind”.

Those who go down to the sea in ships are brave, yes, but their courage is nothing compared with the complete disregard for personal sanity shown by the organisers of the Scottish Traditional Boat Festival.

It is a mammoth undertaking for volunteers to mount an annual event of this scale in the historic coastal community of Portsoy. A record crowd flocked to last weekend’s event, boosted by sunshine that would have had a Greek island’s tourist board downing the ouzo in celebration.

Most visitors to such events are oblivious to the work that goes on behind the scenes, and quite rightly so, because, like a well-maintained engine, the smoother it runs, the less you notice it. You almost take it for granted. Long before the gates opened last Saturday morning, however, a few ripples appeared on the calm of the harbourside. Before long, I was reaching for my battle-dress and tin hat.

As I was fitted with a timing mechanism at birth set to ensure that habitually I arrive early for anything involving work or pleasure, we were in plenty of time to set up the stand for our family business. The number of the stand we were to occupy was shown on a map from the organisers. The map also listed those on the other stands, so I knew who was due to be on either side of us.

We found our stand space and were delighted to discover that the one next door was being run by two charming girls. My map showed, however, that they should have been two down from us, not next to us. No matter, a quick check with the organising committee’s long-suffering stalls co-ordinator confirmed that we were in the right place, at least, so we set up our stand accordingly.

Soon, the people who were originally due to be next to us arrived and found their space occupied by the charming girls. They were pretty laid-back about it, however, and as all the stalls were the same size at that location, they set up instead on the other side of us. That seemed to be that. I should have known better.

Next to arrive were the people who should have been in the space now occupied by the people who should have been next to us but weren’t because their space was occupied by the charming girls who should have been next door to where they actually were. Pay attention, because it gets complicated.

Discussions with the new arrivals seemed more agitated this time and I swear I could hear the distant beeping of blood-pressure monitors. We retired a safe distance to the harbour side to have a coffee and await developments.

As the turmoil grew, greedy eyes were even beginning to eye up our stand space. If I had been absent, I fear some of the wifies who were now on the warpath might have chucked our display in the harbour and claimed squatter’s rights on our area.

An amicable solution was reached eventually with the new arrivals, however. They took the space next to the people next to us who should have been on the other side of us but weren’t because that was occupied by the girls who should have been next to them, had they been in the right place in the first place. Got it?

Like storm clouds on the horizon, there was a problem brewing that did not take a degree in rocket science to anticipate, though. The last stallholders to arrive were going to find their noses well out of joint.

So it proved. When they arrived, there was much growling and girning, dirty looks and accusations of malpractice, mostly directed at the blameless organisers.

Finally, they were persuaded to occupy the space that the charming girls should have been in but who were instead next to us so that the folk who should have been next to us on one side were now next to us on the other side, thus taking up the space of folk who relocated next to them and thus occupied the space of the folk who had now to set up in the space where the girls should have been in the first place. Phew.

Minutes later, the public arrived in their thousands. A magical weekend meant stallholder enmities were forgotten. Well, almost. A few pointless dirty looks remained to the end, sadly.

So, with this in mind, spare a thought for volunteers who, when November gales are lashing Portsoy harbour, will be meeting to plan the 2010 event.

Bless them and all who sail with them.