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

Loch Slapin

In the Yurt, with a Flamethrower and a Nice Cup of Goji Berry Tea

"I could get to like this Geoffrey." I placed a fresh log in the burner, then sighed contentedly as I lay back on a cosy pile of Val's handmade rag rugs and home-knitted blankets, and sipped a cup of Goji berry tea, made from home-grown organic Goji berries grown in Dave and Val's poly-yurt, and sweetened with sea-weed honey harvested by Dave from remote wild seaweed-eating bee colonies on the cliffs over on the Far Side.

"Me too.  Goji berry tea isn't half as bad as it sounds, " replied Geoffrey, who was munching on a cob of ultra-sweet sweetcorn, also grown in the poly-yurt, along with tomatoes, melons, aubergines, monster gabba-gabba fruits and various other new-fangled vegetables. "I think there's a tang of chili in there Tuppy.  What do you think?"
"Yes Geoffrey.  I think you could be right.  Definitely a hint of warmth on the tastebuds."
"I can't wait for Val to come in and give us one of her extra-special shiatsu treatments. My sinuses have been playing up something shocking.  You know I think she's right - allopathic medicine does more harm than good, and the natural ways are the best.  Perhaps it's time we reviewed the medical chest Tuppy, and ditched the old opiates."

"I think that's taking things a bit far to be honest.  That medicine chest has served us well over the years, and  we mustn't be rash.  Besides,  Val says opiates are permissible because they're made from opium, which comes from a plant.  Nevertheless - "

"Shut your pie-holes will you!" snapped Tuppence, who was standing guard at the "door", or "curtained entrance", with a cocked pistol, a flame-thrower and a machete stuck in his belt.  "Val says Val says.  Goji berry tea.  What is this namby-pamby crap?  We're not on holiday you gibbering fools.  This is serious.  We're Occupying the Car Park.  Remember?"

"What's wrong with enjoying ourselves while we're here?" I protested.

"Nothing.  As long as you keep your wits about you and remember to trash the place after, like we planned. You two sound like you're being taken over by the Dark Side.  Since when did you enjoy froot, Uncle Tuppy?  Pull yourself together, for pity's sake.  We've got a mission to accomplish."

"Which is?" asked Geoffrey archly, as he extracted a stray piece of corn from a cavity in his upper incisor with his favourite zircon-encrusted tweezers. "Ow."

"Don't play the idiot with me Geoffrey.  Not that you ARE playing, you witless, pathetic apology for a creature. As well you know, our objective is clear.  Trash the yurts, or failing that drive out Dave and Val, and take them over as a going concern.  Or the other way round.  I'm not quite sure."

"Trash the yurts?  A going concern?" I gasped.  "But that wasn't discussed, when we planned this back at the Outcrop last Monday. We merely agreed to mount a mildly disagreeable and inconvenient protest and then come home again once the food ran out and the toilet facilities overflowed.  You're taking things to a different level here Tuppence, and I don't like it."

"Neither do I," chimed in Geoffrey." I enjoyed Val's talk last week about alternative remedies and environmental friendliness.  I quite like her."

"Yes Dave's definitely the nutter.  Val's all right," I agreed. "When she's on her own."

"Perhaps we should rescue her from Dave!" suggested Geoffrey, eagerly. "She could stay with us, instead.  It'd be her choice entirely, of course, but I think she'd - "

"Oh shut up," snapped Tuppence. "We've got a plan, and we're sticking to it.  I'm the one packing, remember?"  And he switched on the flame-thrower, full-blast.

"Aaaaaaaaaaarrghh!"

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