Hogmanay's passed, but Happy New Year anyway! To be 3 weeks late with a post can only be put down to laziness. But better late than never.

Hogmanay, encompassing 31 December through to the first few days of January, has always been important to us in the Northern Highlands - a bit of merriment in the middle of dark winter. And a start of a new year with new hopes and prospects - some sort of change at any rate - and always more relevant to superstitious northern heathens than celebrating a Christian birth in late December.

In my granny's time, Christmas and Boxing Day were ordinary working days, with no special pomp and ceremony.

But Hogmanay, and the first few days of January, were totally different. And especially lucky if your firstfooter was tall and dark, with a lump of coal and a few coins in one pocket (to symbolise always having heat and money), and a half-bottle of whisky in the other (to symbolise fun and friendship)!

This firstfooter would shake hands with the menfolk and warmly embrace all the womenfolk - with the smell of whisky still lingering on his breath from his last encounters - before handing round his bottle.

Sometimes he came with his fiddle or squeezebox, and anyone who thought they could play a whistle or harmonica joined in. So there was music, songs, stories and laughter. Then it would be time to stop for some Black Bun, or clootie dumpling fried in butter and dusted with sugar, or a lockie of soup from the huge pan bubbling by the stove or fireside.

After that, it would be on to the next house, until the whole village was visited, and the good luck for the coming year shared around equally.

Even in my Mam's day, when she and her sister went up to the Blenns (the hotel in the village), the local piper brought in the New Year after the Bells. The clientele were presented with a buffet spread - especially salty fare to encourage the sale of more liquor. Landlords aren't generous AND stupid! People sang, and danced if there was floor space.

Then at some point, well into the early hours of 1 January, the piper would lead the drinkers through the village, calling at any house with a light on and an open door. So again the luck was spread around the community until the piper got too drunk. Then the people who hadn't already fallen in any ditches, pitched a staggered path homewards.

Happy Days.

In my day, we sat with our nips poured waiting for the Bells, glued to the telly, to be entertained by Southern Belt comedians with a different Scottish lilt and language - and, frankly, a different sense of humour!

We watched a very formal ceilidh with well rehearsed dancers, note-perfect Gaelic singers, and a seated audience who sat quietly and clapped respectfully. Very ordered. Very strange.

Because there was no spontaneity, no inebriated souls - usually introverted - now making a loud dubious performance, with nobody calling on them to sit down and give someone else a chance! No backslapping, no swearing, no banter. In conclusion, it's just not the same. And times have changed. And anyway, the local hotel in the village is now an Airbnb.

Nowadays, everyone seems to lock their doors, wait for the Bells, down a dram, mute the telly, then off to bed and heads down.

Personally, I'm not a lover of New Year fireworks. And neither is Hebe-the-dog. Just where did that idea come from?

Not that Scots aren't afraid of a good bonfire to clear out old sheds and dispose of old rubbish to make way for a new year. Always the ranker (stinkier), the better.

Wet wood, old tins and sodden muck making enough pollution to make a Climate Change activist puce in the face, and ready to explode into expletives!

When I was a bairn, I took part in many a burning. Mainly the target was tough weeds, that choked the grass and so prevented spring cultivation. It was an afternoon's fun to poke the fire with a long stick-pole to make it fizz orange and red, and make the smoke tower up again - black and grey. Me and my sis would jump through the smoke until our black wellies were white with ash, and Mam would shout, 'Watch your boots don't melt!'

After she called a halt to the burning, we would saunter inside, reekin' of bonfire smoke and loving it!

But that was then. Now folk put lot of plastics and other poisonous stuff on bonfires. Stuff that really should be properly disposed of.

Soon we will be celebrating Burns Nicht - our Scottish bard from the Borders. Our own Caithness poet, John Horne, never took it upon himself to address the haggis, so we'll just have to relent and let loose with some national pride on 25 January instead.

It's close enough to Hogmanay to allow for another nip from the whisky bottle before it gets pushed to the back of the press for another year.

Let's hope 2022 will be lucky. 2021 was certainly one worth setting fire to! Happy New Year.

: )