Rose in a Fisted Glove

And the Golden Eagles fly with the Dove. CSN (almost).

The rose is symbolic of the beauty of Scotland. The fisted glove I see as quite oppressive and dark. It’s the weather. The dark fist of the weather. Male Fist. That takes me back. 

I was at the LSE as a student and we heard that the National Front were holding a meeting at Imperial College a few tube stops away. We got a (left wing) mob of about thirty of us together and went over on the tube to disrupt them. As we arrived outside the college the Special Branch were across the road in a dark Rover car. Four of them in it with the bloke in the back nearest to us taking our mugshots with a telephoto lens with the window rolled down. I ran across the road and tried to take the camera off the scumbag but he was about twenty times stronger than I was and they sped off. We went inside Imperial found the hall where the NF were meeting and chased them out. We then had our own meeting with this guy who I can’t remember his name but I knew he had a .303 rifle in his flat for when the Revolution started. He said to stamp on ultra-right activity as he had been beaten up by a group of Nazis in Manchester called Male Fist. It didn’t occur to me to ask why I should seek retribution for his misfortune. But he was right anyway.  This is the view from my seat at breakfast. 

As I set off this morning the sun was out and I saw a dear friend of mine – boom boom!

Yesterday I did 27 miles and ascended over 1000 metres. This morning my legs and back were fine but my feet are knacked. I’ve got horrible blisters from the wet boots and socks rubbing together. But my mood was lightened by the sunshine and the beauty of the rose. 

I headed south along the road to Inchnadamph, climbing up to the pass east of  Cuinnaig, a magnificent snow covered range.

Passing along the road a different perspective of the range was impressive.

Walking along the top of the pass the wind got up, grew cold and it started snowing again. Down to zero during the strongest blow. It was a long walk.

I dropped down to Loch Assynt and came across Ardvreck Castle, the historical and haunted home of the Macleod Clan. Grisly history. Can you see the ghost of the grey man in this photo? Me neither.

I got to Inchnadamph, just nine miles today, and was glad to get into the hostel with a top floor room. Nice place.

I’m not loving this walk. It’s cold and wet and icy to the extent that all I’m doing is walking between b&bs. There’s sod all apart from the beauty of the countryside. I haven’t seen anyone else walking. Nobody. I haven’t passed a shop for three days. My blogs are an old man walking. Nothing else. An old fart with no spark in the wet and miserable wild country. I’m too long in the tooth to do something I don’t enjoy. I shouldn’t have to. I’ve worked all my pisspot life and I don’t want to do anything that I’m not having fun doing. The forecast for at least three days is snow and hail showers. 

Alright I’ve had my moan. Let’s see what tomorrow brings. Night night.