I’ll be in the hills in a few days which will be nice, I’ll be on a few hills over the next couple of weeks as it turns out. I have a schedule, yes I know I don’t mesh well with that stuff, but I’ll make the best of it. Having a plan does give me some sort focus, however hazy it may be, and I’ll be squinting at some fine places over the coming months.
I’ll be east of the A9 imminently, after I’ve climbed Ben Nevis (again), the recent Ben thing should be out there soon, I was super pleased with it and I’m bursting to post some photies.
Apart from that I’ll be going to Coigach to climb a peak I’ve been saving for a perfect day, I’ll be in the Mamores by the back door, and Seana Braigh? This time it’s war. On a bike. I’ll be carrying Holly up some more Perthshire hills, I’ll be in Glen Coe more than once as well as just up the road in the Arrochar Alps, I’ll be on Ben Lui for the first time in a few years and here’s a turn up for the books, I’m going back to Skye with a bivi bag.
So what does a bearded Scot do inbetween hills trips? Well, growing the beard back for a start (who am I kidding, it came back overnight, ah the hormones of the older man) and then of course there’s Highland Dance practice.
I’ve done this stuff, it’s a combination of bullet-time kung-fu and rugby, don’t let the rather camp individuals above fool you.
If you look closely at that picture it tells a story.
At the right you’ve got the brother from the military home on leave, the regimental piper standing straight and looking the artist in the eye saying, Hurry up. Next to him we have the older brother who inherited the estate and lets it run as it did in his father’s day, the staff know what to do, he’s just pissing the money away on bad investments, the gee-gees and the ladies, his whisky reddened cheeks tell you just how it’ll all end.
The straight legged brother facing him doesn’t want to be here, he knew he could have run the estate better, even improved it, but the first-born gets it all. Bastard. He lies awake at night wondering if a “hunting accident” might one day befall his elder sibling before all the money runs out.
The purple sleeved youth is up from university down south, he doesn’t care for any of this and is hamming it up just to annoy the rest of the family. He’s got no chance, the chip on his shoulder is holding him back as much as his distance from the bulk of the inheritance. Bankrupt by 21 and barred from every inn in Oxford, he has a fine career waiting in The City of the civil service.
Hamish is the gillie, he plays the game at the end, keeping his thoughts to himself. He served their father gladly and well, he was a real gent, nothing like these fools who didn’t earn their money and know only how to spend it. His cottage lies on the estate, so he does his job, keeps the big hoose running and the rest of the staff quiet and in line. He’s cleverer than they are, he has a plan and he has time to execute it.