The ides of August for those red
feathered bullets of nature. The day when the great moorlands of Scotland
resonate with the squelch of the landed gentry, moneyed bankers and the 'me, me too' each anxious to pay as much as £10,000 per day to bag that most
treasured of trophies, the Red Grouse.
I, however, headed up to Charles’
place. I won't lie; I am a terrible
townie, I've a tortured relationship with the great outdoors, at times it's
just not for me. Whilst everyone is tramping through the sodden heather soaked
to the skin I shall be curled up in a reading nook with a book waiting on the chime
of the dinner gong. I will perhaps take
a small constitutional round to the paddock and join everyone on the moor.
I have packed my; brown Hunter
wellies, brown cords and a truly ancient
Brora sweater, all in muted tones of course, as
grouse, like most Scots, are easily startled by an over abundance of colour and
pattern.
Note the expression on Kate's
face. That is my normal reaction
to an invite to "That Glorious 12th".
I do hope the sun tips her hat to
your end-of-summer plans. xoxo
