Climbing over rocky mountains (III)

Burke and Wills no more.

To resume after the temporary delay due to a rush of work, leaving only the smallest time to go to my local Horspath pub (since there are two) after work for a relaxing pint of Guinness.

Wendy - Drumnadrochit - oh yes.

Moments after Will and I had arrived, she was off, leaving us to man the hostel while she went on a GI-Joe mission through the deciduous (and otherwise) forests about the place to pick up a pseudo-legal Christmas Tree. She had in one hand a saw, and in the other, determination. Granted we couldn't actually SEE the determination, but we knew it to be there, through statements such as "If they think I'm going to pay 10 pounds for an &*^$ing tree, they are much mistaken", and "Make sure if those Easter European builders [which sounded like a football team] come in they clean their shoes".

This was indicative of ol' Wendy: half of the conversation was a rage against some sort of pre-Luddite machine (you see what I did there?) and the other half was some slur against non-Scottish people. Capital.

Upon her return the Henry Ford assembly line was rediscovered. She, and her hostel aide-de-camp, (even though we hadn't gone camping yet) started slinging decorations on the tree, and were battling with the baubells. So Will and I, who can tie knots with the best of them, Sheepbends and saltshakers and what not, offered our assistance. While this was underway, Wendy looked at our Production line, and, unlike Adam Smith she did not praise our division of labour, but instead commented: people in Taiwan (whence the baubells had come) probably get paid 5p an hour and live in conditions where they need to pay 7p a day for rent. Maverick? Sure. Keynes, Nash, Wendy.... all the greats.

Afterwards she departed in peace (but not according to my word) and her 2IC retired for the night. As Will and I were preparing our evening meal (roast chicken [which was the same bird that earned its wings in Oxford and was bought on the eve of our departure] and plenty of rice with some tomato and onion poppas to make it "edible"= Will and "A risotto"=Tim.) there was a knock at the door. With the cooking all over my hands, it was decided that Will answer it. Upon his return I caught site of three fellow travelers who were looking for a place to stay. There were rooms aplenty, we said, but that the proprietoress was out at the moment. They zoomed off to grab some dinner while we consumed ours with a few glasses of Ardbeg. Methinks that some of the semi-mystical Easter Europeans took a tithe of my whisky.... those crazy footballers.

Serendipitously we finished out tea as both Wendy and the travellers returned. Rooms were booked and that was that. We settled down to a post-meal whisky and talked to the rovers. They were from New Zealand - not off to a flying start there, but we decided to give them a go. Two girls and a bloke: Girl 1 (who was Vanessa, or something similar - I remmebr because I made a cracker of a joke about the Loch Ness Monster, and not many people responded) was at St Andrews (Uni, and possibly golf course, who is to say); Girl 2, for the purposes of this discussion, had no name and worked in a chemist in Ireland; then there was the bloke. Derran, Decklin, Damascus.... something like that. Will and I referred to him as A.B.

The better of the two ABs... a nod to the Ashes reclamation there...

A.B. the moniker given to Allan Border, erstwhile captain of the Australian cricket team. Loved having a mullet and loved being grumpy. This was all that was required, plus perhaps, some Ardbeg, to coin Damien's new name. He was all for the pooh-poohing: mountains in Scotland? Bahh, just little specks compared with NZ; Australian culture? Bahh, nothing on the likes of NZ national heritage.

He apparently worked for someone in NZ on a show similar to Good Morning Australia, 'You know, like Bert Newmann'.... sure. He became Belvedere.

Bert Newman... Fonz... sure.

What a madman. Lamentably, he was the sole voice of reason when it came to us camping in the wilderness - AB gave his assent and claimed we should be fine since Scotland 'Doesn't get as cold as NZ'. But, since he was also a wanker, this advice wasn't heeded, at least not by Will.

After a restorative repose, we left early (ne'er seeing Wendy again) and boarded the bus to the Isle of Skye. The busdriver, MC Hammer/Vanilla Ice/Some other joker - esque, said "Are you ready for this?" and announced a hefty charge for the bus tickets - but nevetheless we were thitherbound for Skye.