EGPU - Tiree, Scotland, GB

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Whisky, Whiskey, Whales, and Gophers
Aircraft: DHC-5 Buffalo "Pipi"
Date: 6 June 2025
Guest Co-Pilot: Terry Jones

Right, then! Log entry, stardate: Friday, or possibly Thursday if you’re counting by the tides—which is a fool’s errand. This is your guest co-pilot, The Dead Parrot Shopkeeper—yes, the very same, still not dead, merely pining for the fjords, or at the very least, a runway above sea level.

We launched from Stornoway (EGPO) in “Pipi”, the DHC-5 Buffalo—a machine so robust it could land on a blancmange, provided the blancmange wasn’t underwater. Which, as it happens, was precisely the problem. Sollas? Submerged! Barra? More water than runway! Cropduster muttered something about “VFR not standing for Very Fishy Runways”, and I agreed, mostly because it sounded official and I was distracted by the dogs’ new button panel.

Onward to St Kilda, the World Heritage Site so remote even the sheep have their own customs forms. The cliffs loomed out of the mist, looking like the set from a particularly bleak episode of “Top of the Pops”. Lani and Kai, our canine crew, were already at their mysterious button panel. Lani’s paw hovered over a button labelled “NOODLES” (in all caps, for extra urgency), while Kai, ever the philosopher, contemplated the existential meaning of the number three.

Now, the challenge: to retrieve the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, rumoured to be hidden at the Bun Dubh in Sandaig. The catch? One must recite the “Instructions of Antioch” and, crucially, count to three. No more. No less. Three shall be the number thou shalt count. Four shalt thou not count, neither count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out.

I prepared myself, cleared my throat, and, in my best ecclesiastical tones, began:
“And the Lord spake, saying, ‘First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin…’”

At this point, Lani, with the timing of a seasoned comic, pressed the “1” button. Kai followed with “2”, and together, they smacked “3” in perfect unison. The Dead Parrot Shopkeeper (that’s me, still not dead) nodded sagely, and awarded us the Holy Hand Grenade—a golden orb that looked suspiciously like a plumbing fixture with a cross glued on top. I held it aloft and declared, “This is an ex-parrot!”—for truly, the collectible had ceased to be, expired, and gone to meet its maker.

Just as we were basking in our triumph, the ground began to rumble. Over the dunes, “Maui”—our Tiger Shark Squadron’s Lockheed C-130 Hercules—thundered in, performing a short-field landing so impressive even the sheep stopped chewing to watch. The “Maui” crew, led by Captain Joseph “Kona” Coffey and First Officer Sandra “Spice” Atreides, taxied up alongside us, their aircraft’s Tiger Shark teeth grinning in the Hebridean sun.

Without further ado, we loaded everyone—dogs, pilots, and one parrot shopkeeper—into our two Gopher Tanks. The convoy rolled across Tiree’s grass to the Ceabhar Restaurant and Bun Dubh Brewery, the C-130 crew’s boots still sandy from the cargo bay, their laughter echoing across the machair.

The evening unfolded in true Hebridean style. We feasted on haggis with neeps and tatties, the haggis peppery and rich, the neeps and tatties mashed to perfection with a dollop of whisky gravy. There was Tiree lamb, slow-roasted and served with seaweed butter, and platters of fresh langoustines pulled from the local waters that morning. For pudding, cranachan—clouds of cream, honey, whisky, and oats, crowned with raspberries. The ales flowed: Bun Dubh’s “Cu Donn” (a malty brown ale), the zesty “Faceplant” pale ale, and the island’s own “Skart” hybrid lager, each poured fresh from the cask, the flavours as wild and windswept as Tiree itself.

In recent local news, Stornoway is abuzz with its latest food fad that seemed to happen overnight: Spam Musubi. Yes, you heard right—slices of Spam, dried Scottish seaweed, and a mysterious block of rice, all bundled up like a sushi roll that’s lost its way to Tokyo and ended up at a ceilidh. The locals are mad for it, though no one seems entirely sure what white rice is or where it comes from. There’s talk it might be a rare form of snow, or possibly imported from the mainland in exchange for whisky and sheep. All I know is, if you ask for musubi, prepare for a lengthy debate about the merits of barley versus rice, and a suspicious glance from the town’s only sushi chef.

As tradition dictates, we did a trade of a full case of Havana Club Cuban rum (1-litre bottles, twelve to a case, enough to float a small ceilidh)—for Tiree’s finest single malt, and not just any single malt, but three cases of the island’s rarest: a 12-year-old, sherry cask-matured Highland single malt, rich with notes of dried apricot, dark chocolate, and a lingering, smoky finish that tastes of sea spray and peat fires. The nose alone could make a grown man weep, or at least forget about the Spam. The exchange was sealed with a toast on the tarmac, the dogs each getting a biscuit, and the locals breaking into a spontaneous chorus of “Auld Lang Syne”—in three-part harmony, naturally.

And so, as the sun set over Tiree, with the Hercules and Buffalo side by side on the grass, Cropduster smoking a cigar, grilling some cheeseburgers and plain meat patties for the dogs while he also checked the weather for Benbecula (EGPL), I sign off:
“This parrot’s not dead—it’s just resting before the next adventure. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition… except, perhaps, our next guest.”

End log. Bring out your noodles!Read more