16 July 2017
This week I am back in the tiny office-cum-box room at Murray Palace and all is quiet. I am alone – the other two are away – with only three lazy cats for company. Their selfish nature means I would get more affection from a wardrobe, but I am obliged to ignore this and provide minimal care sufficient to ensure their survival. Failure to keep them alive would guarantee I incur the wrath of the Domestic Manager when she returned.
As one of them decided to use the bathroom floor as their toilet during the night – a dirty protest at the DM being away I’m sure – I am not particularly ‘cat friendly’ today. I am sure I can still smell it.
Monday at camp – the Domestic Manager and I went for a final walk and dragged Alice along despite her loud protests at the unfairness of it all. The views were breathtaking, although this one caused Alice to say “Uuuugh. That’s really spooky! Are they are the spirits of the undead reaching up from hell? Like zombies?”
“No. They are just dead trees. And for the last time put that bloody phone away.”
On our return I took the opportunity to photograph one of the lodges available for rent at the entrance to our site. It has been constructed around a living tree and was one of the few things to make Alice look up from her device during our stay.
In the afternoon it poured with rain but we took no notice. Neither did the multitude of children that still charged about on their bikes oblivious to the fact they were wet through. The shouts of their exasperated parents were highly amusing:
“Guy! Jusinta! Taramasalata! Get in here NOW! You will ruin the shag pile in the deluxe camper van! And just look at the state of your goatskin crocks!”
That night we returned to the much-improved Roos Leap restaurant for our tea. I can thoroughly recommend it if but be aware it is not a place for those on a diet.
Update May 2020 – while preparing this post for the new website I discovered Roos Leap in Aviemore has gone. It was sold and is now the sort of place that charges £20 for pie and mash. At least Dick Turpin had the decency to wear a mask.
On the way there we saw this in the bin by the main bus stop.
One can only assume the person hoping to get a lift by holding up their sign failed miserably and spent their money on a bus ticket. Quite why they bought the sign with them beats me. It clearly says Aviemore and we were in Aviemore.
Tuesday and day of departure – on Monday the weather forecast said Tuesday would be dry, sunny and fresh until lunchtime, so naturally it was as humid as the jungle and piddling down when we got up.
Now I don’t mind the odd midge but that morning they must have been taking cocaine, because as we took the awning down they set about us in their hundreds. It was like a bad low-budget 80’s horror film. When we had finished we all looked like we had a bad case of the measles.
Wednesday was back to work – I returned to the fun factory and was reminded how being in the company of decent folk can make your first day back a lot more bearable. I had a surprise visit from my old boss in the afternoon which was fun. A lady who gave it all up to go and learn patisserie. All she needs to do now is develop a very short temper and get lots of personal baggage and she will be just like every other chef.
Thursday – the Domestic Manager and Alice were due to go to her mother’s for a few days. Her mother and her husband live down in the borders near Kelso. I phoned from work at 11am to see how far they had got and was informed by a seething DM that Alice had yet to rise from her pit despite many demands. What a jolly three hours in the car that journey must have been.
Alice is due to stay for a week, which will be interesting Her hosts are super religious, something Alice most certainly isn’t. Her only place of worship is YouTube.
This meant I had several days of unchallenged TV access, while watching three cats go downhill as they pined for the people that care for them. They get none of fussing and stroking nonsense from me. Providing food is my limit. And if they are as clever as cats are meant to be they’ll soon learn to open their own pouch of Kanga Chunks, absolving me of any responsibility.
Saturday – a visit to my parents in the morning resulted in a two hour briefing on exactly what they need to do about Brexit, how to solve the immigration problem, how to fix the the economy and why “putting them in a field and bombing the bastards” is the best way to fix the Islamic state.
Despite having no commitments all week, they go shopping every Saturday then complain how busy the shops are. I had expected them to have been and come back by the time I arrived at their house, but this week their departure had been delayed. My mother was keen to take advantage Lidl’s special weekend offer. Bulgarian antifreeze labelled as Full Bodied Red was only £2.00 a bottle, and they had to wait until 10am to get served.
When I left I headed for Brechin, but got stuck in a massive traffic jam. This was strange as Brechin is a small, non-descript town nowhere near anywhere else. It does, however have one claim to fame that brings it to a stand still every year.
In 1837 William C Davidson was born in Brechin and spent much of his early life there. In his early 20’s he emigrated to America and settelled with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. They had several children, one of whom was a chap called Arthur Davidson. In 1903 young Arthur went into business with a chap called William S Harley making motorcycles in the family shed. Do I need so say more? I think not.
For one weekend a year the ‘Harley Davidson City Festival’ sees thousands of owners descend upon Brechin from every corner of the globe. There are motorcycles everywhere, parked, being ridden, or just stationary with the engine running while others stand and listen appreciatively. The creak of black leather fill the ears with the roar of barely silenced engines. Every year they have a ride out through the town and local villages. If you stand by the side of the road you can see lots of them go past as you slowly go deaf.
It was pouring down with rain but they seemed a very resilient bunch. While an admirer of all things mechanical I have never had the desire to own a ‘hog’, but I must admit my head was turned when a very shiny fat boy went past.
Sunday – the domestic manager was due to return, so to make best of my last day of freedom the British Grand Prix followed by Wimbledon was in order. My primary school was only 7 miles from Silverstone and our lessons were disturbed by the sound of practice sessions throughout the 1970’s.
I have been to the Grand Prix many times. Lots of people have told me “I’d rather watch it on the telly. Can’t be that special actually being there!” They couldn’t be more wrong.
Murrays Musings 