It’s odd being an outsider in a crowd, it’s even stranger if the people in whose midst you are in are your family.

I’d had a call from a distant relative to say an uncle of mine would be over from Australia for probably his last visit of his 81 years and the offer to meet with him at a local pub.

I’d arrived a little early to be met by the site of police cars and local radio vans escorting a bagpipe band through the village centre : an unsettling sight given how far we are from the Highlands. Even stranger was the fact that everyone was parking in the field opposite the pub. It turned out that all the fuss was an oyster festival in support of the local church and not an invasion of marauding Scots.

I spotted them in the car park and watched them walk across to where I stood. He looked the same as when I last saw him, sitting at my Mother’s table as we all watched Concord’s maiden flight. The voice was the same and the firm handshake reminded me of my Father. After all these years and with so little time talking is awkward and tends to be far too superficial for what you want or need to say.

What I wasn’t ready for was the arrival of the remainder of my family. People I hadn’t seen and with whom I had not one thing in common or to talk about. A few of them made small talk. Awkward and disjointed, scarred with the family rifts and two decades of separation. Others just didn’t speak which suited me. I think I’m fairly amiable but in lots of respects I was here for one thing and one person only.

As the pipes skirlled outside I closed my eyes and listened to his soft, Australian voice and I was again the small boy who was entranced by the man who sent me letters describing the countries he traveled to; who sent me amazing things from Australia; who, that cold Christmas Eve, woke the house up by standing outside late at night, pyjamas covered by my Father’s coat, standing amazed at his first sight of snow.