A Wee Bit of What You Fancy…..

In the darkest time of year you need to make an effort in order to find the light. The dog helps me to do this as he enthusiastically awaits a walk twice a day no matter what the weather is chucking at us. Even HE doesn’t like the rain but sniffs have to be gathered and stored to fill enough dreams in the minimum of 12 hrs that he spends sleeping. I wouldn’t step out the door at all if I didn’t have to. When I look back at the pictures from our walks over the last month I realise that we found far more light than I remembered.

Granny’s Graveyard - so called by my children because their Great Granny is resting here with others in her family. When I used to drive from college in Dundee across country to Kyle of Lochalsh, I’d look forward to the part of the journey where I could look up and see this amazing wee graveyard pitched on top of a hill. I never imagined I’d come to know and be so fond of so many people whose names are now carved into stones up here.

A studio mate at college often took the same journey to stay with folk in Dornie. On the way he’d stop off at Loch Cluanie and collect beautiful pieces of drift wood - possibly Ancient Caledonian Pine - which had perished since the damn was built in 1957. I’d always meant to go and explore the shoreline but was always on my way to ‘somewhere’ and didn’t have time to stop. So between Christmas and New Year I took a wee road trip to the loch and followed the dogs nose.

The road signs were warning snow and ice so as the squalls started moving in from the west, we moved back to the comfort of the van.

There were occasional sunny days here and there but rarely did we have 2 in a row. So when the sun shone everyone got out and marvelled at what a beautiful place we are lucky to live in and forgot about the grey days. Short memories are important sometimes.

Back at Granny’s Graveyard a week or so later the setting sun was strong enough to paint some gold leaf on a few stones.

And on a recent sunny morning I could see that the sun was appearing earlier round the side of The Ben.

When letting the dog choose the path once I’ve chosen the road, he often makes me work a bit harder than I intended.

We left the car at the viewpoint and his choice was ‘up’.

It was a different world at the trig point. But we did nearly get a sunset.

There has been some pretty slippy issues with this changing weather. Rain one day followed by frost the next and sometimes followed by a partial defrost that left unseen ice under puddles making it lethal. It became impossible for Granny and Papa to even let the hens out so I crawled about the yard on ocassion to help with some chores. Granny asked me to take out some stale cake for the hens. She has a liking for the French Fancy but for some reason has an aversion to the brown ones. As in the scene in Still Game when Victor told Jack he could put the bulb on in the electric fire but not the bars, as that ‘implied’ heat, the colour of the French Fancy only implies flavour - lemon yellow, raspberry pink and chocolate brown. In reality they all taste the same (these are not Mr Kiplings which may or may not have different flavours) but for some reason Granny never ever eats the brown ones. So the hens get them. I scattered them in the hen pen and went to chop some wood. I suddenly realised the dog wasn’t with me and looked up to see him appear round the corner licking his lips. As he’s scared of hens I knew he must have scoffed the French Fancies. This was unfortunate as for the last 2 months he’s been on a strict hypo allergenic diet. French Fancy’s are not on his very short list of non existent exceptions - not in any colour.

Next day, as Spook was packing for a training trip to Norway with the rescue team I asked if I could borrow his cosy waterproof jacket before he packed it. He’s never too keen on me borrowing what he says is essentially rescue equipment as I can be a bit careless, but I was only going for a short walk.

The canal path was treacherous and the dog, who normally has the most perfect poop did a skittery one down a steep bank. This would be the result of the French Fancy. I managed to scoop the part slop/part perfect poop into the poo bag and held it gingerly between fore finger and thumb till I got onto firmer ground where I could tie the bag. As I stepped across the ice, I slipped and the poop swung out to the left but with extra sloppy weighted velocity it swooped up into the air, somehow doubling back on itself and narrowly missing the precious jacket, it came to land on the toe of my welly boot. Only one little perfectly formed poop had fallen out and the squidgy bit was still contained within the bag. I was so relieved not to have hurt myself but even a broken leg wouldn’t have been enough to get me off the hook if the jacket had been splatted.