You’ve got to get your priorities right, cover all your bases, get your backup plan in place and then decide to hell with it and run through the door screaming anyway.
The Forestry Commission now own almost all of the Kilpatrick Hills, they don’t own a lot of the fringe land but they own the whole of the central plateau and all the peaks without a gap other than the lochs which are part of a reservoir system.
Grazing rights are set to be revoked in a couple of years and the hazy plan seems to be something about planting a mix of cash crop trees and indigenous trees. Aye, a huge plot of high land with undisturbed catchment of westerlies? They’re sitting rubbing their hands thinking about how many wind turbines they could fit up there, they own the land, they’ve already got road access for big vehicles and planning would face fewer objections. Few folk can see the area from their windows and the first they’d know about it would be when the white windmills of satan start popping up on their horizon by which time it’s too late.
There’s to be consultation, public meetings, plenty of time to work it all out apparently. Aye.
You know me, you know exactly where my head is at right now.
There’s something lovely about an old school bakers, not the chain ones, individual bakers where everything on the shelf looks different and tastes different to what you can get used to on a high street. They always seem to be run by wee older wummin who’ve been there since the sixties with a glam lassie on the counter to carry the flag onwards and charm the workies. The cuppas come from big tins of coffee and a carton of milk instead of a machine, the sausage rolls are the size of your arm wrapped in pastry, there’s always too much icing on the buns and too much filling in the rolls. Bless them every one and long may they thrive.
I love my new toilet roll.