CROFT MORAIG
restaurant eccentrically tucked behind fancier public buildings. After 3 months of Edinburgh living, it was a delight to pay country prices. Speyside whiskies are mellower than those peaty west coast ones celebrated by whisky bros. The local whisky, Dewars (pronounced closer to doers than da wars) smoothly blended with the mellow pub scene, where big old dogs sleepily spilled out from beneath their masters’ tables. Next, I could bring my own inexpensive but delightfully tart Italian wine 100 metres over to the Turkish resto. It blended delightfully with the fiery and filling peri-peri chicken. Time for bed and a long sleep. DAY 2: began sunny and would’ve been perfect for bagging a Munro. Translation? To bag a Munro means to successfully summit one of Scotland’s 282 mountains that peak higher than 3,000 feet (914.4 metres) above sea level. Doesn’t sound so high? Try bagging one.
Scotland’s as far north as Hudson’s Bay and you’re never more than 65 km from the sea. Weather at any altitude can turn on a shilling. All moot points: I awoke to an unexpected heap of red-hot work in my inbox, on what was to be a day off. Alas. We’d all prefer to make hay while it rains but, well, you gotta eat. No bagging for Bochenek. Instead, I got to spend much of the afternoon prehistoric site seeing. Unearthed the year I was born but dating back to 2,000 years before the Romans invaded Britain, Croft Moraig is a stone circle 20 metres from the road, four miles from Aberfeldy. There’s parking for enough for a few cars beside the mailboxes. Access is free. They just ask that you close the gate after you, so the sheep don’t wander off the local farm. The stones reach from about waist-high to just over my head. It’s more like two and a half incom- plete circles than one perfect O, plus remnants of a couple of graves. Oh, but that’s enough to get the Spinal Tap soundtrack stuck between your ears for hours.
27
Made with FlippingBook Online newsletter maker