Bruar

When we woke up we were underneath some dripping beech trees at the side of a quiet little road which turned out to be in a place called Bruar.

I had suggested this to Mark the night before, and never having seen the name written, he turned out to be vaguely under the impression that it was something to do with beer.

We did not need to be home in any kind of hurry, and so once we were thoroughly steamed awake with coffee, and the dogs briefly emptied, we went to explore.

A little way along the road was a collection of interesting looking buildings which announced that they were the House of Bruar and the museum of the Clan Robertson.

We have family ties to the Clan Robertson, and so obviously we could not resist, and ambled across to examine the Robertson tartan and a collection of troubling-looking claymores.

They were a warlike lot, the Robertsons, and are descended from the King Duncan who met his bloody end at the hands of Macbeth, of Out Damned Spot fame. I do not think I would have liked to be on the business end of one of those swords.

After that we were thoroughly distracted by the rest of House Bruar.

House Bruar is absolutely massive, like a gigantic garden centre without the inconvenience of plants and other grubby things. It is the sort of shop which sells largely unnecessary, but nevertheless lovely things. 

Crystal brandy glasses rubbed shoulders with cashmere jerseys and sheepskin gilets.

We did not purchase anything beautiful, sorely tempted as we were. We strolled around happily, admiring beautiful leather trunks and shooting waistcoats and scented candles in fragile china goblets.

We knew that such reckless spendthriftery would be our undoing.

Then we discovered the Food Hall, and indeed, reckless spendthriftery very quickly became the order of the day.

Half an hour later we were ensconced in the camper van, eating whisky flavoured Orkney cheese and smoked trout for breakfast.

I can promise you there is no finer breakfast to be had anywhere. 

Once we were replete we considered the day. Obviously the time was marching on, even with the extra hour, wherever that went, and we should be getting home, but we didn’t.

Instead we put on our boots and jackets and took the dogs to explore. 

Behind the House of Bruar was a long and winding footpath leading up the side of some dramatic waterfalls.

We breathed in the sharpness of spruce and pine and fallen leaves and walked.

We told ourselves several times that we would just walk for another minute and then we would set off back, but we didn’t, and in the end the afternoon was beginning to draw to its end before we reached the van again, and even then we didn’t set off. We went back into the House of Bruar and bought some more smoked trout to take home with us. 

Smoked trout is the stuff of kings. It was magnificent.

By then we were all a bit damp and muddy, and nobody wanted to go home, but of course we had to. Mark has got to go to work in the morning.

We loaded ourselves into the camper van and switched on the story.

It is still a very long way from Perth to the Lake District, and Frodo and Sam had negotiated their release from Faramir and been jumped on by Shelob before the Lake District fells began to loom up through the mist.

Actually it wasn’t mist, I said that for dramatic effect. Actually we couldn’t see the fells at all because the rain was lashing down in gloomy torrents, which is the way of things in the Lake District.

We unloaded and cleaned the van out.

The Peppers’ house was warmer than ours, so we had a glass of wine there, except Mark started to fall asleep and we had got to go.

Back to work tomorrow.