We'd been touring a series of remote village halls, meeting the locals, finding out what their background story was, what issues they had with the halls, and what sort of events they were used for. Remote halls out in the middle of nowhere can often be the focus for sectarian attacks, and it's a major piece of work, trying to make these visible symbols of one side more widely used by everyone in the community. We'd completed 3 of our visits already that morning, and had been regally fed at each one: our stomachs now contained an explosive mixture of sausage rolls, salad sandwiches, and slices of pavlova as thick as a telephone directory.

Wullie-John had given us a guided tour of this particular Orange Hall, and explained the various means of combating arson attacks that had already been undertaken – the oil tank was buried below ground, there were no wooden fascia boards on the outside of the building, and there was a special lining under the tiles on the roof to prevent flammable liquid being poured in.

And then he'd added that of course, the bloke across the road kept an eye on the place.

I'd looked over at the derelict cottage on the other side of the gravelly track, with one window-pane cracked, behind it fluttering a dirty scrap of net curtain. Every other window in the place had corrugated iron over it. It and the hall were the only buildings visible as far as the eye could see.

"That house?" I asked, incredulously, indicating the ramshackle dwelling, doubting that anyone really dwelled that at all.

"Don't point!!" hissed Wullie-John, slapping down my arm. "He'll be watching!"

We went back inside and met a small group of local residents. It was obvious that they themselves were not averse to several Finn McCool-sized slices of home made pies and tray-bakes, and their generous forms overfilled the plastic bucket chairs and strained the buttons of their polo shirts. We asked them what sort of events they had planned for the future.

A barely decipherable stream of heavy rural accent followed, although I did manage to make out the words "speed dating" at several points. Wullie John stepped in as translator and explained that there were so many bachelors left running the family farms that it was hard to find a wife. Preferably one who could make pavlova.

He fixed my gaze and said "Are ye taken yerself?"