Only the second wettest...?

I have an apology to make to my dear friend YAM-Aunty.

When Gail and I arrived on Friday morning at Yam's lovely home in Dunoon, and she told us she lived in the second wettest part of the UK, I have to confess, I doubted her. I even suspected she was pulling one of my four long and fuzzy legs.

Wearing my metaphorical Bertie Boffin hat (in retrospect a real sou'wester would have been more useful), I demanded supporting data.

Three days later, having gathered evidence a-plenty, I am pleased to report that YAM-Aunty was telling the truth, my only outstanding question being, is there really somewhere wetter?

Thank goodness even Gail eventually conceded that indoor (in)activities were the best option.

And so of course we all had a wonderful weekend together.

Aren't friends great?

A historical misunderstanding

En route yesterday to visit a very special friend in Dunoon, Gail and I stopped for a break in the wee town of Aberfeldy. We went for a stroll down to the handsome old bridge, where Gail asked me to "pose nicely please Bertie" (in exchange for a venison nibble) and said something about a wade.

It was a horribly hot day. At least I think 26°C is hot, even if my more southerly located friends would disagree. So I needed no second invitation to wade into the clean and cooling waters of the River Tay.

Can you believe that when I clambered back onto the bank I was berated for being a "historical ignoramus"?

Apparently Gail had been trying to tell me that the bridge was built by General Wade, and had not at all intended that I go for a paddle.

If any of my readers want to know a bit more about this Wade chappie and his bridge and road building exploits  in the 1700's, you can click here.

Meanwhile, I am looking forward to a few days of being spoiled by my favourite Aunty.

Just a pretext for avoiding stuff...?

We've been here, there and everywhere these last few days, despite the sometimes inclement weather.

Gosh it's a busy life being a four legged avoidance accessory.

So on Friday I was taken for a damp walk in Warren Wood, 'cos according to Gail I absolutely needed the exercise, and it was nothing whatsoever to do with her putting off cleaning the house.

On Saturday it rained heavily, but I was still made to go out, at least until it was time to slump in front of the telly and watch some men with big leg muscles cycling up the Col du Tourmalet in the Pyrenees. And so it turned out, purely by chance I'm sure, that there was no time at all left for Gail to clear that large pile of paperwork on her desk.

Sunday, in lieu of washing the car, we apparently needed to accompany Yvonne and Neil, else they would have been lonely on their walk around Loch Kinord.

Then on Monday, despite our lawn needing mowing and me giving every indication I would have been happy to rest up on the sofa,  Gail saw fit to take me along with Henry (her friend from Australia) for a walk up Clachnaben. No soon as we reached the summit for a picnic lunch than Gail and Henry were reaching for their waterproof jackets as the clouds and rain descended once more. So of course it was too wet to cut the grass when we got back home.

Finally, come Tuesday, with Gail at work, I had the opportunity to relax. Well at least until she arrived home, turned on the radio, heard confirmation of the identity of our new Prime Minister, and cried "Bertie, I can't bear to listen to this, we need to go out for a long walk...."

Imagine what it would be like if we actually lived somewhere with a half decent climate!

Beard envy?

Until this week, I had always taken my beard for granted.

I'm sure you have noticed that I am blessed with a luxuriant abundance of facial hair. Gail does trim it quite often - who knows how long the furs would grow without interference.

So anyway, I was walking in the park on Saturday morning when a Welsh terrier called Taffy and his owner stopped for a chat. The lady commented admiringly on my fine fuzzy fizzog and, no doubt to the embarrassment of poor Taffy, noted how thin and feeble his beard seemed in comparison.

At least Gail spared Taffy's blushes and did not take a photo of him. But I have to say, I do believe I detected a touch of envy in his eyes as he glanced at my bushy schnozzle and then contemplated his own wispy affair.

Do you have a beard and is it a source of pride too?

PS Gail tells me that this is not a polite question to ask a human lady of a certain age. Or in fact any age. Can that be true...?