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Curl Up and Dye I could tell I was in Scotland when I saw a curling rock on someone's front steps. A mini-putt was by the beach. There were people playing cricket and others lawn bowling. The grass in the cemeteries was shaved to a putting green height. Locked school yards, but open public washrooms, garbage cans and picnic tables abounded. The Scottish scenery was grrreat. Roll that R. We swept along the pine forested coast, swallowing in the dramatic wind-sculpted trees, enhancing views in all points of the compass. Just off the coast, a cloud cloaked mountain top protruded from the ocean. All the mountains in this area had strange rounded tops resembling an ice cream cone left in the sun. Making the scenery even better, it wasn't raining! Still, I noticed the countryside was profoundly green and I refused to be lulled into a dry sense of security. In B* we slogged inland on the sparsely trafficked B4077. The area was graced with farmland, woolly sheep and black curly-haired bovines parading beauty shop perms. (We had passed a hair shop earlier named Curl Up and Dye.) Near Colmonell a cemetery had many ancient and unusual monuments. One carved head stone had an angel perched on top, wings outspread. I looked up at the figure and noticed a cloud in the same form, fluffy angel wings outstretched. Bats flitted about catching supper, but there wasn't many bugs. Three ground level jet fighters skimmed noisily overhead in the dusk. I felt the air shimmer before they approached, and then, with an earsplitting roar they streaked over the treetops above us, afterburners glowing orange in the twilight. |
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