I HAVE a sixth sense. Wait, don’t go. I’m not about to tell you I see dead people and, if I did, I certainly wouldn’t wait until the end of the narrative to let you know you’re one of them. No, I can just as much tell your fortune from your palm as intuit your marital status from sniffing your sock drawer, and the only cards I’m reading have unrealistically sunny images of Scottish tourist destinations on their reverse. At least the food is good.

I’m not even really sure what constitutes a sense anymore. The word is used so loosely it’s practically getting a name for itself. Is it style, direction, or even an occasional bout of mischief? They all benefit from sense’s reputation, but something just doesn’t smell right with their qualifications. Even our good friend, common, whose failure to show when I’m up to my toaster in knives makes me think it’s rather more selective than its name suggests, can’t really be ranked alongside the big five. Granted, it has all the hallmarks of a sense, although I’m not sure how the fourth wise monkey would accurately depict it, but in its altogether it just seems a bit woolly to leave to the nervous system. So when I count identity as my sixth, I guess I’m being a little generous; the ragged-nerved philanthropist. Sure, I recognise its sensory skill-set but maybe it just lacks full accreditation. That’s not to say these secondary feelings don’t have real value: I’m certain a Gallowgate pawn shop would give you a decent price on that shiny sense of loyalty. Well, if you kept going back it would anyway. But this week, my adventures took me to a town with a sense that I’m often guilty of overlooking – and as someone who can’t see above Post Office counters, that takes more effort than you’d imagine.

Strathaven in South Lanarkshire is a place that defies all logical pronunciation. But as long as you’re not using phonetics to guide you, you’re bound to have a good time when you arrive at its station. On a glorious day at the outset of summer, you could be forgiven for imagining that Strathaven has managed to sidestep the economic pressures of recent years; its park filled with picnickers, its banks with withdrawals. Like many other market towns of its ilk though, Strathaven suffered the uprising of supermarkets and malls, and the consequential draining of its own trade. But then stepped in that sense of community that I’m hanging this storyline around, and in a Hollywood show of unity, the town fought back, luring unsuspecting urbanites inside its walls with a host of annual events, supported by and supporting the local businesses. The result is a jam-packed calendar, a preserved high street, and a shared purpose that sticks around the whole year through.

I’m no stranger to Strathaven, drawn like a moth by one of those brightly burning festivals, drawn back by its quiet charm and regular bunting. And each time I return, I like to think of the boards and committees, planning and plotting in church halls and front rooms, to bring the ideas to fruition. It’s probably not quite so quaint, but whimsy should never be tempered. For my latest visit though, I finally feel that I contributed, in my own outsider way, to the community spirit I admire so much, as I loaned my voice to the proceedings at the Strathaven Round Table Raft Race 2016. The raft race has, for the past few years, provided a wave of entertainment for the town’s Gala Week – yes, week. With an eclectic programme that includes a rubber duck race, a car treasure hunt and, of course, the gala itself, the seven-day affair brings Strathaven’s natives and near-enoughs to its streets and keeps them there. Whether it’s rolling bowls, throwing wet sponges or tossing burgers, the Gala Week has something for everyone and nothing for the rest, and I volunteered to join the cast of many who hold the whole together.

Fine, technically I didn’t volunteer since, as soon as you meet Ross McKay – the organiser of the raft race and many crazy wheezes besides – you’re pretty much sucked into the storm. This is a man who, before even having met me, had signed me up to run through the most mud I’ve ever seen, and has since convinced me to have wet sponges thrown in my direction, all in the name of fundraising. And when I arrived on the banks of Avon Water in the sweltering heat last Sunday, it was clear I wasn’t the only one who had fallen to Ross’s request. A team of wetsuitted workers waded through the shallows, while new arrivals were handed clipboards and pens and guided towards their fate.

I took up my place in the commentary box, which was essentially a blanket in the long grass with a sound set-up that rivalled the best of Sauchiehall Street’s buskers, and met my co-opted co-host for the day, Helen Mungall. Like me, Helen had never compered before.

When agreeing to the task many weeks ago, of course, I had envisaged an ordinary June day with only the daft and diehard braving the rain to spectate. The weather, once more, turned against me, and the crowds soon lined the balmy embankment to cheer on the winners and chuckle at the rest. And as Ross signalled that the rafts were ready for their racers, it was time for us to take to the microphones and regale the assembled horde, or at least let them know what was happening.

For the opening few minutes, I confess we were more Roy than Murray in the Walker dynasty, but as the first race of 11 reached its thrilling end with the tradition of loser gets dunked, Helen and I were definitely starting to find our rapport. Admittedly, our chat was at times more than a little unprofessional, and there was my embarrassing mispronunciation of LS Smellie and Sons for almost an entire race (apparently it’s ‘smiley’), but we never once announced an incorrect winner and even managed not to slip up to the family crowd when Chicks with Sticks appeared in the line-up.

By the end of the afternoon, everyone involved was hot and happy, but add hoarse to the mix and you’re somewhere near where Helen and I found ourselves. Eight heats and three finals, with a manic run across the Avon in between, had gone by in a splash, and as the Round Table barbecue fired up nearby, there was just time to hand the victors their spoils and crown The Horny Sailors, who spent their entire race rotating beside the start line, as the wettest team of the day.

It’s probably fair to say that I shan’t be heading down to Wimbledon with my CV and a monogrammed microphone, but for my first foray into the world of commentating, I think my efforts came across loud and clear. I left Strathaven with the sweet taste of a good deed well done. For just a little chatter on a sunny day, I became part of something that fosters the spirit of a community, and, for me, that’s definitely a sense worth making.

Join in the town’s community spirit at Strathaven Gala Day, today from 10 o’clock in the Common Green.