An Interval Act on Beinn a Chuallaich
Posted: Tue Oct 08, 2019 11:43 pm
Sometimes our reports say more about the writers than the outing they attempt to convey. Whether intentional or not, it’s part of the charm of dipping in and out of threads on the forum or following names as their latest account appears.
I’ve been sat here today, cradling Lemsip after Lemsip, nursing the sniffles and watching the rain hammer onto the window, all to the accompaniment of a medicinal Talisker.
Sad, I know, but walkhighlands has been a sanity saviour today.
While the Other Half was south of the border for a few days I had hoped for an excursion north, but I’ve not even managed an hour in the garden. As a result, I’ve been able to finally catch up with my outstanding reports. Rekindling the enjoyment of each day by revisiting the views through the photographs and recalling the details of each walk from the jottings in my notebook have been a meagre substitute.
But the quick trip up the Corbett Beinn a Chuallaich has generated lengthy notes that appear somewhere between the surreal and the bizarre.
There are a few phrases that relate to a hill; some mention weather, heather and a curious flock of sheep. Most would be more suited for articles in the arts pages of the weekend press or reviews in The Stage.
After spending a blood-splattered evening at a hard-hitting production of The Duchess of Malfi in Glasgow, we drove north to enjoy a weekend trip with friends in Pitlochry, based around another couple of evenings at the theatre there. Sandwiched between a dodgy production of Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South and the thoroughly entertaining Blonde Bombshells, the others indulged in a threatened retail binge at Bruar.
I was allowed out on my own.
On returning south we were then due to see Scottish Ballet’s interpretation of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, which kept popping into my mind and my notebook as I wondered what it would be like.
So, as my notes tell more about my theatrical crits, I’ll just let the photographs tell the story.
It was that eclectic mix of performances that intruded again and again as I typed this evening, only pushed aside by a BBC Four programme on Fleetwood Mac playing in the background. When I finish, Rumours will be played again … and again.
The next Lemsip will have a Bushmills chaser as the Talisker bottle is now in the recycling.
I’ve been sat here today, cradling Lemsip after Lemsip, nursing the sniffles and watching the rain hammer onto the window, all to the accompaniment of a medicinal Talisker.
Sad, I know, but walkhighlands has been a sanity saviour today.
While the Other Half was south of the border for a few days I had hoped for an excursion north, but I’ve not even managed an hour in the garden. As a result, I’ve been able to finally catch up with my outstanding reports. Rekindling the enjoyment of each day by revisiting the views through the photographs and recalling the details of each walk from the jottings in my notebook have been a meagre substitute.
But the quick trip up the Corbett Beinn a Chuallaich has generated lengthy notes that appear somewhere between the surreal and the bizarre.
There are a few phrases that relate to a hill; some mention weather, heather and a curious flock of sheep. Most would be more suited for articles in the arts pages of the weekend press or reviews in The Stage.
After spending a blood-splattered evening at a hard-hitting production of The Duchess of Malfi in Glasgow, we drove north to enjoy a weekend trip with friends in Pitlochry, based around another couple of evenings at the theatre there. Sandwiched between a dodgy production of Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South and the thoroughly entertaining Blonde Bombshells, the others indulged in a threatened retail binge at Bruar.
I was allowed out on my own.
On returning south we were then due to see Scottish Ballet’s interpretation of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, which kept popping into my mind and my notebook as I wondered what it would be like.
So, as my notes tell more about my theatrical crits, I’ll just let the photographs tell the story.
It was that eclectic mix of performances that intruded again and again as I typed this evening, only pushed aside by a BBC Four programme on Fleetwood Mac playing in the background. When I finish, Rumours will be played again … and again.
The next Lemsip will have a Bushmills chaser as the Talisker bottle is now in the recycling.