Ardgartan, a secluded little village by Loch Long in Argyll and Bute, was a charming wee haven, an idyllic getaway from the mechanised racket down south.
It’s solitude up north, a place to gather thoughts, ruminate, recharge the proverbial batteries. I often listen to the devastatingly dramatic music of Richard Wagner in these moments, and think of ways of taking over the world. It’s never going to happen, but one can fantasise.
I’ve always been more into looking at scenes of natural beauty than … climbing up them. I therefore gazed in admiration at the surrounding hills with their snow-topped peaks, and took a few photos of the beasts. Neglecting any extended adventuring, I did manage to crawl out of our liquor lodge estate and ramble around Loch Long to the Village Inn and back.
I’ve not been on a swing in decades. Nostalgia kicked in. Other estate guests offered some concerned facial expressions my way. Perhaps I should have jettisoned the Jack Daniel’s bottle.
Even travelling insects need their comforts.