Òb a' Bhràighe and Upper Diabaig

No I don't have a clue how to pronounce it either, but this idyllic spot is Òb a' Bhràighe, a secluded little cove, just a hop a skip and a jump from our Torridon cottage.

Now as you know, I am a terrier, and so have the good sense to keep my paws on terra firma at all times. 

But give a certain member of my household a warm sunny afternoon and a swimsuit and she's wading into that not-so-warm and rather salty water, and before you can say goose pimples and hypothermia she's swimming around like a ..... (er, think of something that swims with more enthusiasm than style). You don't even have to throw a stick. 

So yes, our spell of most un-Scottish weather continued through the weekend, at least in Torridon. And just as I described in my previous post from Aberdeen, here too on the normally wet West Coast, one's favourite mud patches have all dried up.

And worse, last week, just a couple of miles from our cottage,  a really scary wildfire raged across a large area of moorland. Gail and I went over to Diabaig to investigate the aftermath.

Thank goodness no one was hurt and the fire did not damage any houses. But gosh it was a shock to trot along the footpath and suddenly go from this...

 To this...

Torridon: A wet walk and a wedding party

Gosh, it has been far too long since I last visited the Torridon cottage. But here I am this weekend on the wet west coast of Scotland, with Gail and her friend Yvonne for company. 

And look how patient I am posing for photos, even in the rain.

Of course I do expect a reward.

Now it may not come as a surprise to folk who have met Gail and Yvonne, but I can exclusively reveal to the rest of you that for this pair of friends, the main point of exercise is to enable them all the more to enjoy a good nosh-up in the evening.

So I am delighted to report that just a few miles from the cottage in the remote village of Diabaig, we have a most welcoming restaurant.

It turns out that on Saturday evening I was not the only dog to be invited along. 

Meet Patch.

I must say, Patch's people were so much better dressed than mine. Look at that fine kilt.

 And what's this? A wedding frock!

And there were two lovely bridesmaids looking most adorable in blue, with white fluffy capes. Gail says that not all bridesmaids would be so enthusiastic about posing with an ever so slightly muddy dog in their arms.

Patch told me that the couple had been married in something called a 'humanist service' on the old stone pier at Diabaig earlier that day. Gail seemed to approve. I sure hope they had some big umbrellas.

In the interest of accuracy I feel I must report that I spent the final part of the evening in the back of Gail's car.

Yes I know, it is quite unimaginable that Gail could have been so cruel. Ok, so there was the small matter of a noisy altercation with Patch while Gail was chatting with another customer at the restaurant (a nice man from North Carolina).

But I notice that Patch was allowed to stay, which I consider quite unfair.

Route Planning Fail

Bertie, and Gail's vocal (and possibly former) friend Yvonne, conduct a highly indignant post mortem following Sunday's walk from Wester Alligin to Diabaig.

Yvonne: "That was utterly terrifying. I am a nervous wreck. Bertie, can't you control your owner? She is a madwoman. Every muscle in my body was shaking as she forced me to scramble down those wet slippery rocks in that vertical gully back there. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. I'm telling you, I won't make that mistake again. I can't believe she dragged me down that cliff. I thought I was going to die. I'm a North London Jew and for us a walk is what you do from the car park to John Lewis* at Brent Cross Shopping Centre... I don't think I can move another inch now, I am in such pain. Bertie, tell your owner I'll stay here at the café and have another smoked salmon sandwich, and she can walk back and get the car and give me a lift home."

Bertie: "And you're complaining? Think how it was for me! I was looking forward to bouncing down the gully, maybe exploring the odd side route, doing my own thing, taking advantage of the fact that Gail would be concentrating on keeping her footing. Maybe I'd even get the chance to run off after a deer, or one of those feral goats that hang out in these parts. But no soon as we reached the top of the steep bit than Gail - the big spoilsport -  clamped on my lead, saying she wasn't going to have me running off putting us all in danger by getting myself stuck and needing to be rescued from somewhere even more inaccessible and precipitous. No matter how hard I pulled on the lead as we descended, Gail just wouldn't let go, and I'm telling you, there was a fair bit of what my American friends call HBO language being uttered along the way. It was all very stressful indeed. Really I think you had it quite easy..."

*Note for non-British readers: 'John Lewis' is a well known UK department store traditionally favoured by the comfortably off middle classes.