In the flickering candlelight, as the flames of a roaring fire leapt higher and brighter in the hearth, wild winds whirled their way around the farmhouse and old steadings, as the rain lashed down in torrents.

With ferries cancelled, angry seas raged, as a ferocious storm blew in from the Atlantic, battering the landscape in its wake, the cows were hunkered in the shelter of the gullys on the hillside and the sheep nestled into the hedgerows.

With the horses coaxed into their stable with hay and a bucket of sugar beet, frustrations and tensions were mounting among the farming contingent as the time-honoured tradition of the annual Persabus Haggis Hunt had to be delayed yet again due to harsh weather conditions sweeping the land.

A watchful eye across the hillside and there hadn’t been any sightings of any haggis since last year’s hunt. These canny creatures have more than a little ‘nous’ when it comes to the weather and coupled with a good dash of humour when it comes to baiting and cajoling those Haggis Hunters into action, they can be a rare breed to sight indeed.

Spending a large part of the year hibernating in little burrows, conditions must be perfect before the haggis come out to play. With incredibly sensitive little whiskers, which they twitch above their burrows, they can effectively check the wind and rain conditions.

Too much wind and those Hebridean Haggis would soon be blown away to their cousins on the mainland and beyond. Too much rainfall would interfere with the happy Dance of the Hairy Haggis, a well-choreographed routine, which in recent studies has been identified as an interesting mix of the ‘Dashing White Sergeant’ and the ‘Ghillie Callum’, thought to have been inspired in these parts by the frolicking and dancing of yodelling farmers returning home from a night at a Portnahaven ceilidh.

However, modern technology is indeed allowing further research into these ambiguous little critters.

When the storm finally died away, conditions improved dramatically. Temperatures plummeted giving way to clear skies, and bitterly cold, crisp evenings.

Finally, the pre-hunt gathering was convened in the shelter of the Happy Farmer’s old shed. Not an event to be missed, farmers arrived from all corners of the island and beyond. In among the old machinery, piping hot pies, bubbling with fillings of Highland beef cooked in red wine, were quickly guzzled, along with a small customary nip of the island’s finest malts.

Each farmer was equally well prepared for this clandestine mission, togged from head to toe in the customary green waterproofs and wellies, hoping the gamekeepers wouldn’t spot them in their mission.

A quick toast to the Bard of Scotland and they were off, heading into the darkness, hoping those haggis would be lurking among the tufts of hillocky grass out on the Persabus hill.

With each passing season, those farmers’ joints are getting more clickety and clackety, and with a few hip and knee replacements on the Christmas wish list this year, with the best will in the world, the usual ‘coalie backs’ or ‘leapfrogging’ of farmers was not realistic.

Instead, a handy stile was erected in advance of the hunt to ‘help the aged’ over the initial hurdle of that foreboding electric fence. However, without fail, there’s always one!

As the hunters made their way over the stile and continued their journey through the next obstacle of waterlogged bogland at the foot of the hillside, at the back of the line, waiting his turn to circumnavigate the stile was the wee, dumpy, farmer. As he hoisted one short leg up high into the air to try and reach it safely over the stile, disaster happened.

He slipped and in that split second, grasped out to the inviting electric wire. As his stubby, short fingers curled around it, he received the sharpest of jolts, a shockwave of electric voltage that sent him ricocheting through the air, flying past the motley crew of farmers still trudging through the boggy quagmire below.

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Over taking at a rate of knots, he was soon positively sprinting away up the hill in the distance, leaving the rest of the team in his wake. The farmers could only look on with huge admiration, completely oblivious to the cause of his sudden spurt, as they saw their valiant friend take off in the distance, impressed by his Olympian prowess.

The huge bellowing cry that accompanied, as it flew from the depths of his lungs, could easily have been mistaken as a war cry to call the Almighty Haggis into battle, as to the rest of the group it appeared sheer bravery had taken over, as his flowing crop of thick red hair looked like a flaming torch leading the way into the distance up that hillside.

In all honesty, from the base of the hill, it appeared their friend was going to take on the almighty haggis alone. Try as they might, the rest of those farmers simply didn’t have the huff or the puff to pick up their pace to be by his side as he seemingly rose into battle.

Way up at the top of the hill, the farmer was finally able to catch up with his little legs, calm them down, slow them down, and gently lower them, in a jellied heap, to a seat beside the trig point at the very top of the hill.

Way, way below, in the moonlight he could just about make out the rest of his hunting team making their very best efforts to clamber up the hillside, slipping and sliding, huffing, and puffing, and frequently pausing to catch their breath.

The Farmer reached into the depths of his jacket pocket and pulled out his hip flask. He carefully unscrewed the lid, his fingers still trembling from the shock of that fence far below, he managed to raise a wee nip of amber nectar to his lips, before the flask slipped from his grip, falling into the long grass.

Unbeknown to him, the group of hunters were not the only ones to have been impressed with his newfound speed and agility. As he reached for his flask in the undergrowth, he was sure he spotted a few twitching whiskers.

It is well documented that haggis and whisky pair together beautifully, and soon the farmer was surrounded by dozens of twitching whiskers. Soon, the whole hillside was twitching, as those haggi slurped and guzzled on the whisky that had spilled around the farmer.

By the time the rest of the crew finally made it to the top of the hill, their newly acclaimed ‘chief hunter’ had somehow, mysteriously mastered every intricate step of the happy Dance of the Hairy Haggis. The hunt also proved to be one of the most successful haggis hunts to date, as those farmers made their way home, pockets bursting with plump, fresh haggi.

So, at Persabus this year we will be enjoying the delights of haggis and mince in bolognaise, haggis and mince in chilli, haggis and mince crofter’s pie and, of course, good old haggis, neeps and tatties too. Slainte.