16 October 2011--It's a rainy morning, and again we choose to relax a while in the house. This is not at all the weekend in
Knoydart that I had in mind, but it's pretty hard to argue with a comfortable private cottage in a remote and scenic location, with
a nice pub a short walk away, to boot. We have a decent view over the Foundation bunkhouse to the bay beyond, and the neighborhood
peacock stops by to say hello. I've often considered renting a cottage for a week in various places around Scotland, and here I am
getting a taste of what it would be like. Of course, a week in one spot would mean less time for visiting other places...but I could
easily get used to the relaxed pace.
Shortly before noon, we rouse ourselves for a walk. The weather isn't so bad, with occasional passing bands of rain, no bother if you're dressed for it. We follow the track east of the village this time, the route we'd have taken had we decided to tackle Ladhar Bheinn. We go as far as Loch an Dubh-Lochain, at which point the track gets muddier than we feel like dealing with today. Ron opines that the scenery that lies tantalizingly ahead is more spectacular than Glen Coe. I don't think I'd go that far...perhaps he's been carried away with the wildness of it. The fact that there are no trucks roaring down a highway through the middle of it is undoubtedly a plus.
The round trip is about seven and a half miles, a bit less than yesterday. Along the way, we pass the monument Brocket had erected "in gratitude for his father and mother and his wife and children" in 1938, the year before that gentle soul attended the Führer's lavish fiftieth birthday celebrations.
Once again the sun makes a late appearance, the sky breaking briefly as we walk into the village. It's very quiet in the Old Forge on a Sunday evening--after dinner, the only customers in the house besides us are off-duty staff, all Australians (a phenomenon I've commented on before). As so often happens, our last night here is our best, as we loosen up a bit, playing pool and bantering with the others. It occurs to me that this is a typically Scottish experience, two Yanks and four Aussies in a remote Highland pub, not a Scot in sight. I guess it doesn't happen that way all that much, really, but sometimes it feels like it.