A figure with long hair and the full kilt and regalia loomed up behind us. Just add the claymore and he could easily have been on the run from Butcher Cumberland and his jolly redcoats.
"Are you the man with the pigs?"
I'm getting used to being known almost exclusively for owning pigs, but I can't help feeling it's hardly the way for the groom to address one of the guests in church moments before kick-off with the bride warming up in the tunnel and the vicar checking for the red and yellow cards.
Resisting the temptation to ask if he knew Mel Gibson, I confirmed that I was indeed the owner of the pigs, offered hasty congratulations and settled in to watch the action.
Despite not having met the couple in question before, we had a smashing time. Mrs Pig "Farmer" sang hymns with a remarkably straight face for a confirmed atheist then went on a five-hour RealAleathon, sinking (by my reckoning) seven pints as she drank the Pig "Farmer" under the table.
Bill and Diana turned out to be fine folk and we hope to see them in Westray sooner rather than later.
The whole event brought a little bit of Scotland to Orkney and reminded me that I've never worked out why of all the countries in northern Europe to say an emphatic 'no' to the trousers, did it have to be just about the wettest, windiest and most midge-infested?
No wonder they lost at Culloden.