Wednesday, 15 October 2008 Take a stroll around Inveraray in the drizzle this morning, meeting a fellow photographer, far
more dedicated than I, lining up photos between the raindrops. Browse Loch
Fyne Whiskies, but I know I'm not buying, so it isn't much fun. No sign of the estimable Mr Joynson, nor of Hamish of the Isles
(with whom I am posed on the North Atlantic Arc front page). Perhaps they are away on business.
Make a side trip to shop in Oban on my way north. I brought two of Ian Rankin's Inspector Rebus novels with me, and have finished both, so I buy a copy of Fleshmarket Close, the next in the series, at Waterstone's. It's Emily who started me on Rebus, sending me a remaindered copy of Fleshmarket Alley (the book's title in the US, where readers apparently cannot be bothered to figure out what a close is). Ironic, perhaps, that I will read this paperback copy instead.
I take another detour to have a look at the remains of Ardchattan Priory. Hey, it's not an abbey. Actually, I have only now figured out that a priory is sort of a minor league abbey, a prior being subordinate to an abbot. Too bad, I might have bagged a couple of priories in Yorkshire. Ardchattan is very small, and a good part of it has been built into the manor house on whose property the ruined priory stands. There isn't a lot to see, and there is little information about it, either, beyond the fact that it was founded by the Valliscaulians, an order that was later absorbed by the Cistercians.
Through Fort William, up Glengarry, down Glenshiel, to Plockton I go, arriving late afternoon. It's good to see Teresa, but it's a sad meeting, as well. When I booked in August, she informed me that Richard had been stricken with cancer earlier in the year, and had died only two weeks before. I remember a hale and hearty fellow, smiling as he gave me grief over the Red Sox' latest ill fortune, or whatever he could find to give me grief over. It's pretty quiet now about the house.