We've Been Where Fancy's Taken Us - and now we're going home again (hopefully)

"Load it up Geoffrey.  Hurry!  The tide's about to turn."

"It would help if YOU helped, Tuppy. I can't manage all these bags of Spanish coin on my own."

"I AM helping.  I'm the look-out.  And if I help YOU,  I won't be able to see anything,  will I?  Just get on with it, will you?"

Fancy had taken us to the secret cave stuffed with treasure from a wrecked Spanish galleon (mentioned in a post last week.)  For days we had huddled in Fancy's bowels, surviving on a "sample" bag of dried cranberry and macadamia nut mix, three fun-sized flapjacks, and a flask of goji berry tea - all courtesy of Val Nark's table sale at last weekend's Harvest Home Festival.

We don't have a "church", Hereabouts, but Val and Dave felt that some sort of seasonal gesture would be nice, as well as being a good promotional tool for their ongoing yurt business.

"We're building a super-yurt next.  It'll be up and running for the start of the next tourist season," stated Dave, in his most irritating "I will not be denied" manner.

Naturally, that remains to be seen.  Or in other words,  NOT if we have anything to do with it.  Which we fully intend to ensure we do.  In every imaginable respect.  Especially if said respect involves large amounts of combustible material,  fire accelerant,  and a Zippo lighter.

"You shouldn't be taking samples," said Val, as we filled our duffel bags with flapjacks, goji berry tea, and anything else that was lying about. "You've tried everything.  You should be at the buying something stage by now."

"We just want to make sure that we like it all before making our minds up," said Geoffrey obsequiously, as he brushed a few macadamia nut crumbs off his waistcoat.

"Yes.  Times are hard and we can't afford to spend munny on stuff we aren't sure about,"  I added, through a mouthful of yogurt-covered dried fig and banana bar.

"Really." snapped Val.  "And since when did you two have a dog?"

We glanced at each other in astonishment.  "A dog?"

"Yes.  Those are organic vegan dog biscuits you're dunking in your samples of knotweed and dock leaf tisane."

Well we liked them.  But we thought perhaps best to leave Val to her rapidly-emptying stall, and her latest knitting project.

And so here we are on the far-flung outpost of Frockall,  loading our coracle with the treasure that we found at the bottom of the secret cave, and trying to avoid the attentions of the native cannibal sheep with orange wool...

"And truly massive incisors Tuppy.  Did you see the incisors Tuppy?  They're truly massive.  I saw the incisors Tuppy.  They're massive and they clearly belong to a serious meat-eating species."

Geoffrey was reading my mind again.  It's very annoying - although sometimes, very useful.

"Do stop panicking Geoffrey.  Have you finished packing the gold coin?  Oh I suppose that'll do.  We can always pop back for more.  Right.  Let's be off before  - aaaaaaaarrgghhh!!!!!!!!!!!"

One of Them

"Oh, Geoffrey.  What's the point? One travels only to arrive, and when one arrives, one simply wants to be off again.  Isn't it best for one simply to remain where one is, and wait for Death?"

I dropped my end of the coracle and sat down heavily on a sea-weed-covered rock.

"Pull yourself together Tuppy.  We're not on a pointless mission.  We're after a hoard of Spanish treasure, remember?  Look - I've painted FANCY on the bowsprit, so that we can truly say that we're going where Fancy takes us!"

I smiled weakly. "Thanks for making the effort,  Geoffrey."

Geoffrey blinked rapidly and preened himself.  "I knew you'd like it.  Perhaps as well as the treasure we'll get some of that orange wool off the indigenous sheep and get Mrs T-G to knit us jumpers when we get back.  She's got a new Acme Knit-o-matic knitting machine and is knitting loads of stuff, all the time.  Did you know that, Tuppy?  Did you know about her new Acme Knit-o-matic knitting machine, and that she's knitting loads of stuff, all the time?"

"No I didn't.  Stop babbling.  Now think.  Did you pack the blunderbuss?  Because honestly I'm not going one step further if not.   These orange sheep are cannibals, and in case you hadn't noticed, I'm One of Them.  I don't want to end up simmering in a pot at Gas Mark 3, with a Knorr stock cube, a glass of red wine, a bay leaf, a sprig of thyme, two onions, a carrot and a third cousin twice removed."

"I think it's in the carpet bag under the extra gelignite.  But more than likely you won't need it.  I'm sure you'll be welcomed with open arms Tuppy.  Come on now - the moon's up.  Let's catch the tide."

Fuckall.

"Get out there and DO IT Tuppy!  Come on - get up off your fat back-side and do some star jumps.  Healthy body healthy mind. UP UP UP!!!!  Get that blood pumping through those blocked arteries and flush out those fatty plaques before you develop clinical depression and slash or die of a massive myocardial infarction."

"No.  I've got stuff to do."

"What stuff?"

"Absolutely fuck all - and that's the way I like it.  Now fuck off."

"Did you know there is an island off the north coast of North Rona,  called Fuckall?  It has its own breed of indigenous sheep.  They have orange wool and are cannibals.  And there's an underground cave,  packed with treasure from a wrecked Spanish galleon, which lies undiscovered to this day."

"No, I didn't.  And neither does anyone else.  Stop making things up.  Wait a minute - did you say treasure?  Fetch the coracle Geoffrey, and fill the flask!  We're off to Fuckall on the next tide.  Let's follow the stars and see where fancy takes us."

The Original Rocky Outcrop

I found this photo this afternoon when having a clear-out.  It's a copy that my parents ordered from Scottish Field magazine, back in the late 60s or early 70s I'm guessing.  I remember it hanging on our livingroom wall as a child.
It's taken from the McCrimmon Memorial,  Borreraig,  Isle of Skye, and the occasion was an anniversary, I think.  The McCrimmon Memorial is a large cairn which commemorates the great McCrimmon piping family and school.
The photographer was a George B. Alden,  I think, and copyright belongs to Scottish Field.  I haven't asked for permission to reproduce - am assuming that because the photo is so old, it might not matter...
The cottage in the background is my late great-aunt's.  Her sheep can be seen grazing around it.  At times one would wander inside.  The two dots on the far cliff are people - my great-aunt, and my cousin, I think.
The cottage no longer exists.  It's been completely remodelled and extended and turned into a very upmarket holiday let and artist's studio.
However,  the version pictured remains as the original inspiration for Sea Penguin and all related stories.
The view from the iron age Dun above and to the left of it is tremendous - right across Loch Dunvegan to the coral beaches, and across the Minch to the Outer Hebrides.  In the other direction are the Cuillins.

Please Make Me a Nice Cup of Tea

"You've been looking at the news on the itternet again, haven't you.  That's a rhetorical question by the way.  I don't require an answer because your face tells me All I Need to Know."

"Ummmmmmmmm......."

"As I thought.  Unplug that itternet thing and forget about it."

"But what about the rapists, and the child molesters, and the thieves, and the terrorists, and the holesale destruction of the planet?"

"That doesn't concern us.  And it's "wholesale", not "holesale"."

"How did you know how I was spelling it?  This is a real-life 3D conversation, not an online convo."

"Oh shut up with your online convos.  That itternet thing has turned you imbecilic."

"I don't like the itternet anyway.  I only end up getting upset.  And don't you mean, "that itternet thing has turned you into an imbecile"?

"No.  Now leave me alone.  I need to concentrate on my new book, "One Hundred Ways to Polish a Turd (wot u never thought of B4)""

"Wow.  That sounds fascinating.  I'm sure there will be a huge market for it."

"No there won't.  But I don't care.  I refuse to pander to the popular whim."

"Will there be pictures?"

"Yes.  No.  What am I saying? Perhaps.  Please make me a nice cup of tea."

Wee in the Tea-pot.

Our front door

"What's green, yellow, and orange, has no superego to speak of, and can recite Hegel's Phenomenology of Spirit in its entirety, in the original German, backwards, while accompanying itself on the piano accordion and eating a bacon sandwich?"

"I don't know.  Give us a clue.  Where does it live?"

"It lives up your chimney."

"What does it eat?"

"It likes milk chocolate digestives.  McVities ONLY.  But it realises it's being a snob."

"So it has insight.  Does that not indicate that it does in fact have a superego?"

"...."

"I see. You don't know what you're talking about, do you?"

"No."

"Good.   Now let's get on with the game.  Loser has to thread the other one's eyebrows."

"I've not got eyebrows."

"That doesn't matter, because you're going to lose."

"How DARE you!"

"Oh shut your pie-hole and put the kettle on. Look, I'm sorry, all right?  I've not got eyebrows either.  And what's more I don't care. Let's crack open the Soreen loaf and forget about it."

"Maybe.  Maybe not.  You said to shut my pie-hole and that's not very nice.  It'll take more than Soreen loaf to make up for that."

"I said I was sorry."

"You said it too fast.  It was meaningless."

"No really.  Really, I am sorry.  Will that do?  It better had because it's all you're getting.  I know there's issues and stuff underlying my foul nature, but I can't be bothered dealing with them.  Can't we just have a nice cup of tea and not talk about it any more?"

"Oh I s'pose. I weed in the teapot when I was in a temper last night by the way. I really regret it now that you've said all that.  If I rinse it out with boiling water do you think it'll be OK?"

"No."

Nature reclaiming its own

It's only a few years since this road was categorised an "A", with tour buses, lorries, and other heavy traffic careering along.

"And I know a grove
Of large extent,  hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not;  and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths."

From Coleridge's The Nightingale, 1798

Why I Hate X Y and Z, growths, boils, and other awful rubbish

Geoffrey

"WTF are you doing Geoffrey?"
"I'm blogging. "
"Well would you mind doing it in the privacy of the latrine, or somewhere?  That tippy-tappy noise is spoiling my enjoyment of my fourth bacon and red sauce sandwich.  What's blogging, anyway?"
"Blogging is writing a whole load of crap about things nobody cares about, and then blasting it round the internet.  Or attempting to.  I've got a computer now, see?  I'm on the itternet."
"What's the itternet?  Don't you mean INTERnet?  Surely."
"No I don't.  I mean ITTERnet.  Leave me alone."
I peered over his shoulder. "WHY I AHTE.....you've spelled HATE wrong.  And what do you hate, anyway?  You're a very mild-mannered type as a rule."
"Stop it!  Go AWAY Tuppy.  I hate everything!  I'm an itternet hater!  I'm a troll!"
"You're not.  You've turned bright red.  You're getting hot and bothered.  You're embarrassed because you're writing a lot of rubbish that any right-thinking  person should be thoroughly ashamed of."
"Oh all right.  I admit it.  I was feeling neglected because you were spending too much time discussing that book about growths and boils with the new librarian from the mobile library and I needed some attention.  You're right.  I don't hate anyone."
"Except yourself.  Come on - say it after me.  I don't hate anyone - "
"Except myself."
"Louder please."
"I don't hate anyone except myself.  There."
"Thank you.  Now I can get on with reading more about growths and boils.  In peace."

The World of ePigg &c.

"What's that awful smell?"
"It's Mrs Tupfinder General's latest recipe.  Black Pudding Mousse.  Home-made."
"It doesn't smell like black pudding.  It smells like...like...well I hate to say it, but blood."
"Well of course it does.    She's been slaughtering pigs all week so she can collect enough blood for the puddings."
"Slaughtering pigs? All by herself?"
"Yes.  You know what she's like. Rubber apron and a big knife."
"Good grief.  Where did she get them?"
"The apron and the knife?  Probably found them in the outhouses or something.  They've got everything up at Tupfinder Towers."
"I meant the PIGS.  Where did she get the pigs?"
"She ordered them online, apparently.  From a website called ePiggandsonsdotcom.  Run by a Eddie Pigg and his daughter, also called Eddie.  They couldn't call the site ePigganddaughterdotcom as someone was already using that name.  They provide everything pertaining to the world of pig - so long as it's a live pig that you want and nothing else."
"You're awfully well-informed.  Why have I not been privy to this information?"
"You're always staring out windows or smoking your pipe, or finishing a bacon sandwich.  I don't like to disturb you when you're busy.  She's started an alligator farm as well.  Selling steaks and making handbags from the skins."
"And I thought all she could do was knit baggy jumpers and make black sausage rolls! (see previous posts for more on black sausage rolls)  What does the T-G make of all this?"
"Oh he doesn't care, as long as he gets his dinner on time.  He's absorbed in some new artefact that he's nursing in his vitrine. (see e-books for more on the T-G's vitrine.)"
"I expect...oh!"
*crump crump crump*
"It's him! It's the T-G!"
"Hallo chaps.  Would you mind closing the windows?  I can't stomach the smell of blood for a moment longer.  Have you any sal volatile?  I could do with a whiff to clear my head."
"Of course. Geoffrey - open the medical chest please. And chuck me an opium tabloid while you're in there.  I'm feeling a bit nauseous with the smell.  It's terrible, isn't it T-G?"
"You think this is bad?  Wait till you smell the mousse."

Parlour Games

"What's orange, has three noses, five legs and - final clue - and surely you'll get it with this one - breath that smells off.  Sorry OF.  That's breath that smells OF newspaper.  Come on  - answer me someone." Geoffrey tapped his pen against his beak. "I haven't got all day."
"Oh do shut up Geoffrey," I snapped. "It's three in the morning.  We've been at this for hours."
"How are we supposed to know?" asked the Tupfinder General. "For pity's sake.  I'm going to get some air.  Unlock the shackles will you?"
"Not Until You Say the Answer," said Geoffrey.
"That's outrageous!  Surely we're entitled to a comfort break.  This is only an after dinner parlour game, after all."
"It Matters To Me," replied Geoffrey. "And you said I could choose as it's my birthday, and you two would play along."
"Yes but - "
"If you let me down now I'll never be able to trust either of you again.  Come on now.  What's orange, has three noses...."
"Oh we give up.  Just tell us the answer and put us out of our misery."
"OK.  NOTHING, is the answer. A-hahahaha!" laughed Geoffrey. "Nothing!  You fools.  What on earth could it be?  There's nothing on earth that answers that hideous description. Tricked you!  I win!  A-hahaha!"
"Are you all right, T-G?" I asked.  The Tupfinder General was turning an un-natural shade of purple. "Is that steam coming out of your ears?"
"Never mind that. I can hear someone scurrying about outside.  And am I the only one who can smell newspaper?"
"Yes."

more later.

From Lismore public conveniences

From Port Appin,  Argyll