I am on holiday, Day 18

I should point out that the days (i.e., Day 18) does not refer to today (Monday), but to the day I am writing the post about (in this case, Saturday). Why do I do this?  I know you do not care, but in the olden days people would notice such things and write me odd emails. I didn't know what to do with the emails then, and I wouldn't know now, so I thought I would "head it off at the pass", as I believe Alexander the Great once said.

We drove from Inverness to Skye and from Skye to Glasgow (both very nice routes if you are looking out of the window and/or used to British roads; neither are advised if you have only ever driven on American highways).  Our final morning in Glasgow was tinged with whisky breath and sadness knowing, as we did, that we must leave our pals and go South, but before we left we received two special gifts of love: an unexpectedly foxy statue of Darwin and his monkey friend (both are in the Botanic Gardens in Glasgow, should you wish to see Darwin's carved buttocks up close):

 




































And this sign of excellence, depicting a shop owned by a man whose teeth were not a good advertisement for his services:

We left Glasgow and drove towards the Lake District, remembering to stop at the Tebay Services, as recommended by our excellent Glaswegian hosts. My word! If only all motorway service stations were like this! The world would be better, and full of people eating delicious lunches and coffee cake and buying nice pottery on their way to somewhere organic. All they would need to do is add some bedrooms and I would spend all my holidays there eating their fruit cake and looking at their pies.

Our B&B in the Lake District was an Inn, i.e. a pub with rooms upstairs and food and all of that - clearly the best idea in the world ever (apart from Tebay Services).

 Here is the bed we slept in:

To get to this quite nice room, you leave the nice pub and cross a tiled floor that smells of loo cleaner left over from 1972. It spoils the effect somewhat, as does the hair of the previous guest stuck to the wall with lemon shower gel.

This was the view out of our bedroom window.

Dinner was strange. The potted shrimp were hot, the lamb free of lambyness, and the potatoes so abundant that I could have set up a chip stand out of the back of the horsebox across the road.  An American lady at the table came in sweating, and leant saucily across the table to whisper loudly to her Spanish lady companion that she "found the steak was looking most provocative".  We did not wait to find out what happened next, and, weighed down by potatoes, spent the night in a sweat thinking about the hair in the shower.

The next day, fortified by strange toast, we set off for Yorkshire.  Yes. Yorkshire. The best place in all of the world, perhaps.

Pip "hiyaaaa!" Pip

NWM

I am on holiday, Day 17

Before I met the the French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist with whom I share my life (and fleas), I thought of moving away from London, to either a) Glasgow (practical AND possible) or b) a farmhouse in a dangly dell in Wales (possible but definitely not practical).  Anyway, I ended up in Canada which is nothing like either of them, but it doesn't mean that I don't often think of Glasgow and/or Scotland in a wistful style. Why? Because my oldest (and one of the most loved) friends, her husband (who I also love) and her children (who I am stealing) live there, and ALSO I like all her friends (who I would also attempt to steal).

For this post, there is no need for chitchat, just pictures. We stayed with the friends I describe in such loving terms above, and it was great. Really great.

Here is the bed we slept in when we were staying with them. It is a very bad picture that does not do its comfort and loveliness justice at all because I was, not to put too fine a point on it, shitted, and the pathologist had had so much whisky he got is whisky finger out* and told me, as I was putting him to bed, that what I needed was a donkey to look after.

And here is what I mean by not needing words. This outfit was put together by the two sons of our lovely hosts "as an homage to the visit of the Non-workingmonkey":

See these animals? First ones ever made by Naughty Lolo.  They are made from marzipan and the colour was hand-mixed.  They are astonishing. We laughed until our undergarments could have done with a freshen-up.

See? Nothing to say, is there.  Apart from "amazing", or perhaps "very fucking good indeed".

Now we are in the Lake District, except we are leaving to go to Yorkshire in a minute. It is "all go".

Pip Marzipan Pip

NWM


* 'Whisky Finger' is what comes out when you have had too much whisky to drink and you are pointing at people and ranting or saying "no but just listen right" with your hair standing on end.

I am on holiday, Day 13

I have lost track of time a bit and keep forgetting to take photographs of breakfast, but things are going well: we sleep well (although I have dreams of playing a gigantic cat in a play with Sienna Miller and Jude Law, and last night I dreamt that I was the leader of a band of vampire killers on the Upper West Side - the vampires could see me when I was on the loo, which disabled my vampire-killing powers), and watch television in our pants at night. In the day we go for walks and look at the sky.

Here is the bed we are sleeping in.  This is an ungenerous self-catering cottage that does not provide sugar or a teabag or oil or soap, so it is a blessing that the water is hot and the bed comfortable despite the non-feather duvet and furniture made out of sticks. Please note the excellent tartan detailing:

If you look out of the window, though, you soon forget the tartan ribbon round the lampshade:

Yesterday we drove through rain and looked at things and went for a walk and ate lamb chops. Today the rain was not here and the sun was, so we drove the opposite way and looked at different things. The things included Dunvegan Castle, which was MUCH better than I thought it would be - mainly because of the walled garden and this letter:

After that, we did a vague sort of walk to the  coral beach and had a picnic.  As you can see, the quality of foodstuffs supplied (by me) was moderately high; you may also see (by looking at the backgrounds) that we were in quite a nice spot. It may not be clear that we were also in a force 100 gale.

Delightful smoked salmon sandwich nestled in foil, moistened with cream cheese and made vicious with pepper.

Prince of Snacks, the hard-boiled egg, with salt and pepper from A TWIST OF FOIL. In the background, a hill.

My "husband" triumphantly holds aloft a ham and lettuce sandwich against a backdrop of sea. 

We are now once more in our pants watching the television. Tonight, it is leftovers out of the refrigerator (O the joy of cooking for oneself and having a washing machine after 2 weeks of travelling!) and more television; tomorrow, to Glasgow to see my oldest and one of my most beloved friends. We shall bestow wooden snakes upon her sons (who are probably too old for them) and jump up and down with excitement. After that, to the Lake District. 

Soon, I shall write more about anoraks and how I feel about owning one. I may also introduce you to Mr Stick. But that is for another day. 

Until then, I remain, in my pants, eating tablet and watching TV,

NWM

I am on holiday, Day 12

We are in Scotland now, on Skye, and it feels just right:  both like I remember it and far more astonishing than I thought it was. Marrakech was the dogs because we were there for my little brother's wedding, but somehow it wasn't surprising, and I felt like I had already been.

On top of and in addition to the vague lack of surprise, it was hotter than a mosquito's tweeter, and I am the enthusiast of the colder climate as, also, is my "husband", a French-Canadian veterinary research histopathologist who is able to walk uphill on ice.  (I am also an enthusiast of food, esp the 'cuisines' of the Middle East, and I was astonished that I didn't like specifically Moroccan food more; it is very sweet, and I do not like very sweet things much.   Highest per capita consumption of sugar in the world in Morocco, apparently. Yarp.)

I had allowed 7 hours to get from Heathrow from Euston to get the sleeper to Inverness, but no need, Oh no, for Royal Air Maroc were efficient and also on time, and we emerged burping into the tube strike at Paddington like two sunburnt food-poisoned moles concentrating hard on holding in their waterpoos.   We chanced our arms: using the power of our mouths, could we bend the minds of the coach attendants to persuade them that our 23p inflexible ticket could be transferred to the 9.15pm sleeper to Inverness rather than the 11.50pm to Edinburgh? Yes we could. We achieved this feat by me keeping my mouth shut and my "husband" asking Lucille, the attendant lady, about Manitoba.

Eleven hours, haggis, neeps and tatties, half a bottle of red wine and some surprisingly peaceful sleeping later, we arrived in Inverness. Because I am trying to be true to the original point of this "Travelblogue", I will now show you the bed we slept in last night.  I had the bottom, and my enticing "husband" the top:

The drive from Inverness to Skye is the bollocks. We stopped at the famous castle that has excellent fake puddings in its fake kitchen: 

And we drove slowly behind Bert and Elma, who I think were invented before the Highway Code, and were therefore incapable of driving faster than 32mph: 

And then we got to Skye, and we went to the supermarket and did not buy this: 

And we found our cottage and sat by the window and looked out of it, because what we saw out of the window was better than the best film you have ever seen, e.g. Working Girl or Terminator 2. 

Tomorrow, for a walk, our knapsacks full of nuts and cheese sandwiches. 

Pip McPip

NWM

I am on holiday, Day 11

We are back from the Marrakech and in one  piece, despite being accosted by a henna lady and despite it taking over 23 minutes to buy two wooden snakes. Tonight we go to Inverness on the sleeper. I am losing my voice but am in good spirits, and am glad to be in a climate that is cool and that threatens rain.   More tomorrow once we are in Skye, but in the meantime, here are some more photographs.

To start with, here is the ceiling of the bathroom in the second bathroom we had in our hotel. If you look carefully, you will see a bird's nest, and perhaps a bird. But not the poo it left in our bath.

Here are some photosnaps of Marrakech. The problem with taking photosnaps in Marrakech is that every single one has probably been taken better by someone else a million times. Still, some of them are pretty. I like the old man best, even though "Arjun" probably means "fuck off, tourists".

We flew back to Heathrow with the charmers that are Royal Air Maroc. Despite their astonishingly bad reputation, the flight was on time and our baggage arrived before we did. NOT ONLY THAT, but they had my secret favourite pudding for lunch (that weird French custardy stuff), which more than made up for Mystery Meat and Rice of Damp Wool:

Most intriguing, however, were the safety card things. Not only does it seem to be frowned upon to kick fellow passengers out of the door,

but kicking them out of the window is also not recommended: 

And neither is strolling up and down the aisle smoking a poo.

And now to the train, and Scotland!

Pip McPip

NWM