August 21, 2013

That glorious 12th.

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