We are back.
We are sitting in the taxi rank, where we have been for the last hour. We are the fifth and sixth taxis in the queue because nobody has gone anywhere at all since we arrived.
I am not holding out a very great deal of hope for massive profits this evening.
I do not mind. We have had a splendid holiday.
I am not exactly sure what you know about it now, because of some irregularities in last night’s entry, so I might have to go back a day or so for you to catch up.
We did not break down at all, not even the smallest bit. The camper van positively sailed along, as smoothly as the first skater on a polished ice rink.
In actual fact we had set off very early indeed, by our standards at any rate. We were going through Kendal even before most people had finished coming home from work, and hence were north of Perth long before we were the only can left on the road and we had started accidentally falling asleep at the wheel, which is what we usually do. It felt very late anyway, because of the early winter dark. Indeed, by the time we reached Oliver’s school the next day, the sun had set and the chill night closed in around us by half past three, because Gordonstoun is very much closer to the north pole than most of the civilised world.
Anyway, we slept at Bruar and took the dogs for the walk up the fellside by the waterfalls when we woke up, which was ace, because the air was knife-sharp, and our breath hung in cheery clouds. The dogs belted around and barked at the memories of deer, and we marvelled at the waterfalls and Mark explained how stones get caught in little gullies and polish the holes round and round until you have a deep pool. He showed me one. Then he showed me the differences in the rock structure and explained what had created different parts of the gorge.
I thought that I liked the smell of the pine needles and wondered if the Horned God was in the woods.
We strolled back down to the House of Bruar, where we spent a few minutes looking around their splendid shop, and I took some photographs even though there was a notice telling me not to. I could not imagine why this might be. I do not take photographs in shops because I like to own pictures of jars of chutney, but because they look nice on these pages and save me a thousand words every time. I could not think why so many other people might wish to record images of biscuits and mince pies that a shop has got to put up a notice telling them not to.
I don’t see why they shouldn’t anyway. It doesn’t hurt the biscuits.
Anyway, after a breakfast of bread and honey, which was special camper van honey made by our own bees, long ago, and which ought to taste different and better than any other honey but doesn’t, we set off again, this time to Grantown to purchase some Genuine Scottish Crafts to give to people for Christmas, so the secret is out, you are all getting a sporran.
Then we did the last long leg of the journey, and reached Gordonstoun, where we found that this time we had got a tall boy with a deep voice.
He has told you about the next bit. We went to Aviemore where Elspeth and her daughter were staying. They came to dinner in the camper van and we drank too much, in celebration.
We will draw a veil over that bit.
After that we slept blissfully until coffee, at seven this morning.
Most of the day was occupied with the long drive south. We stopped to eat ethical pigs in blankets and slabs of smoked cheese, but apart from that we just kept going.
Sometimes Oliver came to talk to us, and sang and played music. Sometimes he went in the back to play games on his computer, and then we listened in captivated horror to brave Eowyn fighting the King of the Nazgul, and to Frodo and Sam crawling across Mordor.
We do not want the story to end. It is a magnificence.
It was five o’clock before we got home, and Oliver immediately programmed the television set to listen to his voice and follow his instructions. I have since had an email asking me if I would like to be allowed to watch Oliver Ibbetson’s television sometimes.
I think that very probably I would.
