My furs and Shetland sheep furs

Over by the cottage in Torridon last weekend, I spotted that the local residents - the ones I am not allowed to chase, and must wear a lead when near to - had recently been to the hairdressers.

At least some of them had.


The neatly shorn Shetland sheep belong to our neighbour Julia, a very clever and creative lady. I know several of my readers are into knitting and stuff, and they might like to visit Julia's lovely blog, where you can learn about the wonderful things she makes with her sheep's wool.

The Red Roof Croft House, by Julia Marsh

Seeing the sheep gave Gail the idea it was time to 'strip' me of some of my furs too.



I suggested that surely my furs are at least as valuable as a sheep's and maybe Julia would appreciate them as a gift and use them to create something special?

Gail just gave me a 'look'.

And put the ball of precious Bertie fluff straight in the bin.

I ask you.

Torridon life: walking and woofing

OK, so come on Gail, I'm ready.

Look this is the way to the front gate.

Why must you put on my lead before we exit the cottage garden?

Oh. Sheep.

Well at least I can bark at them. No?

Gail stop staring at the clouds. I'm sure it's not going to rain. We're not turning back anyway.

Uh oh. I am not going to cross this cattle grid on my own. I don't care if Hamish would have managed it. I want to be carried.

Thank you.

Great, so no sheep this side. You can take my lead off now.

BTW, why isn't it called a sheep grid?

Don't flap, I promise I'll stay close. We'll hear in plenty of time if a car's coming.

Stop! I could swear I spotted a frog right here.

Wow, that house has changed shape quite radically since we last walked past. What a huge window.

Oh yawn, Gail, I'm sure nobody cares that it now belongs to a former Labour cabinet minister.

Ah, I remember now, the path back through the trees is this way.

IF I'VE TOLD YOU ONCE I'VE TOLD YOU A THOUSAND TIMES. DON'T TAKE PICTURES WHILE I'M HAVING A PEE.

One day I'll figure out how to get through this kissing gate by myself.

Hmm. A kissing gate. If only Addi were here...

Race you home Gail!

River Deep Mountain High

One of my all time favourite short walks is along the footpath which leads eastwards from our Wester Alligin cottage over to the slightly larger lochside settlement of Inveralligin. You can enjoy views of Loch Torridon and the mountains to the south, and the path is gentle and generally easy on the paws.

I expect that those folk who promote Scotland as a tourist destination would prefer that I show you photos of this lovely walk taken on a dry and sunny day.

Well my friends, it is no secret that bright and rain-free days are few and far between in Northwest Scotland in November (or any other month, come to think of it).

So I feel that I shall be doing you a public service by showing you what the path was looking like last weekend, when Gail and I were over at the cottage and ventured out for a stroll during a brief interlude between heavy downpours.

I mean how else would you know that what to any sane dog would appear to be a stream, best avoided by water-averse chaps such as myself, is in fact the correct route to follow?

It all started just fine...

Wet, yes, but perfectly passable

Then for a moment I lost sight of the track

And when I found it again...

 

It looked like this...

We did eventually reach Inveralligin, without doubt a feat of exploration to match Stanley's arrival at the mouth of the River Congo. 

But you might not be surprised to learn that we decided to return via the road.

Oh and by the way, why is a stream known in Scotland as a 'burn'?

Surely it should be a 'drown'.

The Twa Dogs* (Torridon version)

An edgy encounter in Wester Alligin.

Woof woof! Good afternoon. Do you have time for a chin wag?

It had better be quick. Can't you see, I'm busy. I'm a working dog.

A working dog? What's that? I'm not sure I'm familiar with the concept. Can you please explain?

Have you got wool for brains, pal? It means I work for a living. Herding sheep is my profession. I can run all day over the mountainsides if required, gathering in my flock.

Gosh that sounds fun. Do you work all on your own?

No, I am part of a team. Much more efficient that way. We even have a little trainee, she's just seven weeks old.

Isn't wee Gail cute?

Er, first time I've heard my Gail described as cute! Oh you mean the puppy. How funny that she's called Gail too. And by way, I am not dumb. Pal.

All right then, keep your wiry hair on! So tell me Mister Smarty Pants, how do you earn your keep?

Um. Um. Um.

Oh come on, you must do something. Or are you one of those spoilt city types that sits around all day eating fancy food and having your nails painted? 

Most certainly not. How dare you suggest such a thing. Why just this weekend, I have been in action as an explorer, a geologist, a gardening supervisor and a forestry expert....

What's more, I'm quite sure I could do your job perfectly well too, given half the chance. I've not noticed that the collies at Deeside Dog Agility Club are in any way smarter than me. I'd pick up all that "come bye" business in two shakes of a lamb's tail, no question.

If only a certain person didn't make me stay on this d****d lead whenever sheep are roaming nearby...



*Thanks to the great Rabbie Burns for inspiring this post.

The Torridon Echo

Gail loves the garden of our cottage on Loch Torridon 'cos of the ever changing view over the sea loch and mountains, the colourful tangle of unkempt flowers, the fond memories of Hamish the Westie (whose ashes are buried here), the fresh salt-scented breeze, the, er, serenity...

I love it 'cos when I bark I can hear my own voice echoing back!

Can you hear me? Twice! (You may have to turn up the volume). The echo works better in some parts of the garden than in others - the acoustics experts amongst you will understand why.

Don't I sound great?

Oh. Gail is saying after all that row, I have to let her show you this tranquil photo of Loch Torridon, which she rushed outside to take at about 8:30 pm on Sunday evening, braving the clouds of wee midgies.

You can have too much peace and quiet Gail.