Can't Complain
Apr. 19th, 2022 07:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootWe were out at Balmaha with a friend and his son; Balmaha's full of charm, all dog walkers, young families, and eager hikers. Stick figures walked high up on conic hill, boats waited on the water and we stayed right where we were for lunch, pies and burgers under the old oak tree at the eponymous pub. I would have been happy enough to take the ferry across to Luss, but the boys wanted to drive there. Luss is on the South Eastern side, closer to our home route, old Colquhoun land.
Our speedboat was 20 minutes late, delayed due to a hen party's pub crawl across the loch. The bride-to-be rolled around on the deck in a Loch Ness Monster outfit, exceedingly drunk and with no real capacity for leaving. The pilot looked on patiently as his guests fell out of the boat half carrying her. He waved them goodbye, tried not to seem relieved, and got us all on board, into the wind and the spray, wild geese buzzing our bows, while we listened to stories of Loch Lomond.
We passed Inchconnachan, more commonly known as Wallaby Island. Here Fiona Bryde Colquhoun, Countess of Arran and powerboating holder of the record for the fastest woman on water, built her little zoo, all gone except the wild wallabies. Now Kirsty Young of Desert Island Discs has bought the place, cue controversy about the future of the marsupials, as she wants to build holiday dwellings there. 70,000 people signed a petition against the culling or relocation of the animals, while others rage against the loss of indigenous wildlife claiming that the wallabies did for the island's capercaillies, and still others protest against her plans because the island is in a conservation area of special scientific interest; one way or another, it's all happening.
On we went past another island where a farmer lives out his beloved cowboy legends by taking his highland cattle swimming across the loch, himself on horseback, likewise swimming. Presumably this is to take them to market but maybe it's his morning constitutional. We didn't see him.
On past the most ridiculous golf club conceivable, this place: https://www.lochlomond.com/
You join by invitation only, which tickles me; I'm trying to imagine my words of gratitude to any mate inviting me to spend over £100,000 to join plus something in the region of £25,000 a year for no more than 4 rounds of golf in that time. £6000 per round of golf. I'd pay that to avoid a round of golf. This was the seat of the clan, the mansion of Rossdhu, and is obviously where all that new world harvested adrenochrome ends up. Club house, clan house, house of the living dead where some methuselah chieftain of the Colquhouns ruminates long aeons upon vengeance against the MacGregors. Bleedin' freaky is what it is.
The loch is said to have its own monster, last recorded, I think, in the 70s, as a large beast seen killing ducks by several eye witnesses. There have been the odd plesiosaur type descriptions too, but I can't find anything about them. The wild animal licensing act became law in 1976, the same year Nick Taylor, a freelance journalist, plus mates shooting a music video, saw a strange creature gliding slowly through the water, picking up speed to swim against the current. They described it as a giant crocodile or alligator. That new law would have been reason enough for a croc in the loch, possibly stemming from a release, as happened courtesy of so many exotic animal owners at that time. Alas, poor beastie would have had no worries finding food, but winter would have finished it off. But because that makes me sad, I'll turn to a different story. Maybe it belonged to said Colquhoun chieftain hiding out on More Money Than Sense island, where experiments have led to a race of colossal guard crocodiles hidden around the course. Damn, these people take their golf seriously.
The rain never fell so hard as to soak us, only to soften the edges of the world; we passed kayaks and canoes, saw occasional tents pitched, with one of my favourite scents crossing the water to find us; woodsmoke in the rain, in the ever dreaming realm Scotland borders, or mirrors, or is, a place close but hard to reach from here.
We came home happy, sat around the fire pit long past midnight to drink and talk rubbish, wind whipping sparks high above flames in the dark.
Can't complain really. Can't complain at all.
Our speedboat was 20 minutes late, delayed due to a hen party's pub crawl across the loch. The bride-to-be rolled around on the deck in a Loch Ness Monster outfit, exceedingly drunk and with no real capacity for leaving. The pilot looked on patiently as his guests fell out of the boat half carrying her. He waved them goodbye, tried not to seem relieved, and got us all on board, into the wind and the spray, wild geese buzzing our bows, while we listened to stories of Loch Lomond.
We passed Inchconnachan, more commonly known as Wallaby Island. Here Fiona Bryde Colquhoun, Countess of Arran and powerboating holder of the record for the fastest woman on water, built her little zoo, all gone except the wild wallabies. Now Kirsty Young of Desert Island Discs has bought the place, cue controversy about the future of the marsupials, as she wants to build holiday dwellings there. 70,000 people signed a petition against the culling or relocation of the animals, while others rage against the loss of indigenous wildlife claiming that the wallabies did for the island's capercaillies, and still others protest against her plans because the island is in a conservation area of special scientific interest; one way or another, it's all happening.
On we went past another island where a farmer lives out his beloved cowboy legends by taking his highland cattle swimming across the loch, himself on horseback, likewise swimming. Presumably this is to take them to market but maybe it's his morning constitutional. We didn't see him.
On past the most ridiculous golf club conceivable, this place: https://www.lochlomond.com/
You join by invitation only, which tickles me; I'm trying to imagine my words of gratitude to any mate inviting me to spend over £100,000 to join plus something in the region of £25,000 a year for no more than 4 rounds of golf in that time. £6000 per round of golf. I'd pay that to avoid a round of golf. This was the seat of the clan, the mansion of Rossdhu, and is obviously where all that new world harvested adrenochrome ends up. Club house, clan house, house of the living dead where some methuselah chieftain of the Colquhouns ruminates long aeons upon vengeance against the MacGregors. Bleedin' freaky is what it is.
The loch is said to have its own monster, last recorded, I think, in the 70s, as a large beast seen killing ducks by several eye witnesses. There have been the odd plesiosaur type descriptions too, but I can't find anything about them. The wild animal licensing act became law in 1976, the same year Nick Taylor, a freelance journalist, plus mates shooting a music video, saw a strange creature gliding slowly through the water, picking up speed to swim against the current. They described it as a giant crocodile or alligator. That new law would have been reason enough for a croc in the loch, possibly stemming from a release, as happened courtesy of so many exotic animal owners at that time. Alas, poor beastie would have had no worries finding food, but winter would have finished it off. But because that makes me sad, I'll turn to a different story. Maybe it belonged to said Colquhoun chieftain hiding out on More Money Than Sense island, where experiments have led to a race of colossal guard crocodiles hidden around the course. Damn, these people take their golf seriously.
The rain never fell so hard as to soak us, only to soften the edges of the world; we passed kayaks and canoes, saw occasional tents pitched, with one of my favourite scents crossing the water to find us; woodsmoke in the rain, in the ever dreaming realm Scotland borders, or mirrors, or is, a place close but hard to reach from here.
We came home happy, sat around the fire pit long past midnight to drink and talk rubbish, wind whipping sparks high above flames in the dark.
Can't complain really. Can't complain at all.
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