Some unscheduled moments in life are like no other:

‘A multi-coloured flying carrot wizzed past my ear narrowly avoiding an incoming football that subsequently bounced off the top of my bald head’ sort of moment. Not a very unusual or exceptional sort of moment in the grand scheme of things, of course, but certainly an irritating sort of moment to say the least (the ‘multi-coloured flying carrot’, by the way, was a dragon fly; the football, a wayward shot on goal by my son)

And then, of course, there’s that sort of moment that can be described as ‘a stretched in time sort of moment’ with longer lasting effect and possibly remembered as being unique or even exceptional. One of these happened to me last August.

I watched through the kitchen window as a man on his hands and knees sifted through fallen pine needles in our garden, a sweep net in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other. He was an entomologist (or ‘bug man’ as he referred to himself) searching for bugs. I didn’t know that he was an entomologist at the time, of course, no, not to begin with anyway - never met the man before in my life - so what was he doing in our garden in the first place, you might ask?

Well, it was like this: his wife and mine, work colleagues, friends, dropped in for a chat, cup of tea, carrot cake, that sort of thing, brought husband along as well (‘bug man’), and children too, mustn’t forget them, and very pleasant folk they were too. So that explains that.

Now our garden isn’t much of a garden, you know, not really, not in a conventional sense anyway, far more accurate to describe it as a two acre wood with some rather damp parts, extremely conducive to midges and not very conducive to anything much else apart from heathers, conifers and a variety of uninteresting looking sedges (unless you like sedges and sedges are your thing). Boggy land and lots of it, that’s what it is, though undoubtedly a wonderful habitat for bugs and insects of the microscopic kind, and obviously fascinating if you happen to be an entomologist dropping by for a cup of tea.

As I scoffed more carrot cake and chatted between mouthfuls to the extremely pleasant Mrs ‘Entomologist’, I watched with mounting curiosity as Mr ‘Entomologist’ glided smoothly through the heathers, his sweep net swishing energetically back and forth, side to side, stopping just now and again for him to inspect the contents. He carried bug detecting equipment with him at all times, you see, ready to leap into action whenever necessary. No deranged individual with strange habits, this chappy, no, no, certainly not, but a highly respected (though somewhat eccentric) scientist equipped with the latest hand-held satellite technology to record the exact location of any rare or exotic bug he might come across. Fascinating!

During an interval in the tea and cake consumption, we gathered by the pond to view pond skaters, toads, dragon flies and similar beasties (sweep net now replaced by ‘pond net’), all of which I could have seen at any time of course, only now they were revealed through the eyes of an animated character who’s obvious excitement was hard to contain as he flitted from spot to spot uttering gleeful and enthusiastic noises. Wonderful!

There were dragon flies in abundance by the pond, creatures hitherto viewed suspiciously by me as ‘wasp-like flying carrots’ to be avoided at all costs - to run away from in fact - although on this occasion I stood still and, for a fleeting moment or two, they metamorphosed from ‘flying carrots’ into ‘insect of beauty’ (although not quite beautiful enough, I must admit, to prevent me from losing all dignity and running away when any ventured too close for comfort).

Just before ‘Bug Man’ left, he noted the exact location of a rare species of insect (using satellite technology of the hand-held variety) and announced in no uncertain terms that we were lucky to possess such "good quality bog". And with this startling revelation ringing in our ears, they were gone, returning home via a bug-infested wood stump - spotted earlier on Scotsburn road - that clearly merited further investigations.

So next time you’re out and about the ‘bog lands’ of Tain, Dornoch or wherever you happen to be and spot a deranged individual prancing through heather and sedges, take note for he may not be deranged at all but simply an enthusiastic entomologist out for a jaunt with his family, sweep net in one hand and the latest techno-wizardry in the other.

As for us, we see our garden in a different light now. It may not be the neatest garden in the world, but – my word, good heavens – we have it on expert authority that our bog is of good quality – a good quality bog – and not many folk can say that, now can they?