Small Isles

Well well. Eigg was there all along. For there was a bit of sunshine in the morning. Sunshine which didn’t please me as much as it ought to have done as I looked out the bedroom window, I must admit; for there were the coos. Still there, steadily destroying the garden. But only four. Two round the front, and two at the back. I knew something must be done. So, retrieving the long handled brush, out I did step. Calmly and assertively I rounded them up and marched them down the garden. And as they made to dart past the gate, I circled round, my cattle commanding voice growing ever more like a farmhand, I do fancy. Interspersed, I found, with little whistles, as if commanding some invisible sheepdog. It worked a treat! Out they obediently trotted. How my breast swelled as I stepped back indoors to tackle a bowl of manly branflakes.
So, there was some pootering - a walk to some otter haven, with no otters to be seen, obvs. And then back up to Broadford - the son will cook two of the remaining meals, and I will do the other two. We picked up a local woman, hitching on her way to the shops. And birrled her back - and she knew Kenny the rogue who sold me the boat back in 2010. Jings. I told her to say hello and tell him it was still afloat.
Back to do the usual relax and watch a bit of the Game of Thrones - we brought a box set with us - the very first episodes. And I’ve got to say, it’s very appealing. Of course, there may be a bit much nudity and raunchiness for it back at home, but it’s perfect for this sort of place with sonny boy. Right. Episode three!