Tuesday, April 11, 2006

The dogs of sloth

Lumpy seas on the Peterhead-Orkney leg of the voyage home, but Phenergan once again negated the nausea. That and, in my case, an enormous meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Why do sea trips make me so hungry?
Shetland is looking half-submerged, so wet is the landscape. We have friends staying at the Radiocroft who live in South Uist, a place as treeless and windlashed as the Old Rock, but, well, less rocky, and much more vulnerable, as was proved to tragic effect, to incursions by the sea. Our house (here since 1760) is perhaps five metres from the sea, and less than one above high tide mark. Substantial armouring, two flood walls and some serious drainage have been installed since the last time the sea actually got in during a 1970s storm, but occasionally I watch the ocean nervously, looking for the combination of wind and tide that would have us, like previous occupants, perched on the Rayburn, fishing for mackerel...
The St Bernards, Lucy and Lulu have returned and want to do nothing but sleep. Their "holidays" are taken amongst up to 16 of their brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and parents on the nearby island of Yell, where they are firmly put in their place. Lulu, a particularly athletic build of canine, apparently attempted a break for home, but was stopped from boarding the ferry by a team of seven crew, a policeman and a JCB. Now she is snoring gently, Lucy by her side, and I can't persuade either dog even to consider a wee walk. They know it's too wet for man nor beast out there...

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