There has always been a bit of niggle across the border separating Scotland from England, hasn't there? Any Scot will firmly grip their old Gaelic dagger and dream of Bannockburn when you mention the Poms.

Bit like tonight's Wingecarribee mayoral election, actually, but that's another story.

THERE is a lovely little yarn about a gamekeeper in the Scottish Highlands which sums up the feeling nicely. The story goes that a very proper Englishman bent down to scoop some water from a Highland burn.

As he put the water in his mouth a gamekeeper shouted out, "Dinnae drink tha waater! Et's foo ae coo's sheet an pish!"

"Oh! Hello there," said the proper Pom," would you repeat that in English for me?"

"Certainly Sir," said the gamekeeper, "I said use two hands - you spill less that way."

YEP, the Scottish language can be hard to follow.

The last time we were in Scotland, Barbara and I had been travelling in Russia and Scandinavia beforehand, without hearing too much English in six weeks.

We were standing on Glasgow's Queen Street Railway station waiting for a train and remarked that it was great to be back in an English speaking country.

That was until we heard the Glaswegian announcer on a crackly microphone telling us all about the next train.

His words were incomprehensible. Moscow's Leningradsky station announcements were easier to follow.

SOME years earlier, we had been driving from England up to Scotland.

Approaching the border, we could hardly understand a word they were saying on the car radio, especially the during a talk-back segment when locals phoned in.

On that same car journey, we were listening to an interview with a Scottish radio announcer and a well-spoken English lady.

She was explaining how she'd just returned from a holiday in Cannes.

"Spent the last seven days flat on my back," said the good lady. Quick as a flash, the Scot politely enquired, "illness or romance?"

ONE of the best days we have ever had in Scotland was in the remote village of Inverie at Knoydart in the Sound of Sleat off Mallaig, where golden eagles soar in the sky and deer graze along the misty valleys.

We had a memorable lunch at the Old Forge Public House, where they sell a tee shirt emblazoned with, up a mountain down a beer.

So clever, because to get to this pub, you have to walk 29km through the rugged Scottish Highlands, with no road access.

When you get up that mountain you certainly deserve to down a beer.

We thoroughly enjoyed our Sunday roast at the pub, after tackling an entree of wild boar pate washed down with a pint of fine locally produced Hebridean Gold, delightfully described as, "a unique ale, brewed with porridge oats to produce a beer of exceptional smoothness with a deep and creamy head".

But I must confess, we didn't walk 29km across the Scottish Highlands to get there, because on a rare good day, a boat runs across from Mallaig and luckily we were there on a good day.

At the jetty there is a handwritten sign saying, "We don't have emails, we have diesel." Yes, this was indeed a remote place.

ACTUALLY Dudley had a nasty accident at the Old Forge Public House, falling into the open fire, hands first. He was transferred to an Edinburgh hospital and next day had a visit from Grace.

"What is the hospital like, Dudley?" asked Grace.

"The nurses are very good and so is the treatment," said Dudley, "but the food gets a bit boring."What do you mean boring?" asked Grace .

"Well we get Haggis for breakfast, Haggis for our lunch and then Haggis again for supper."

"What do you expect," scoffed Grace, "this is the Burns Unit."

ANYHOO, wonder how the Scots will vote tomorrow?

There are many Southern Highlands residents with their roots in Scotland, who will be interested.

I am guessing the heart will tell Scots to go for independence, but wise old moths in their wallet will remind them of a warning from Nobel Prize winning economist Paul Krugman, who reckons if they vote yes, Scotland could quite well end up being a bit like Spain, without the sunshine.