Ah, the inside joke. You know, the random non sequitur dropped into the middle of a three-way conversation which leaves the other two chortling and you wondering what you missed. Or worse, the shared experience you didn't share. For example, when two friends go on a long walk and talk about it in a group setting – like a blog – as if everyone had the luxury to be there and knows exactly what’s being talked about. Ugh. Hate those.
So, mea culpa.
With the wind and rain beating on us most of the day, the 9 miles from Bridge of Orchy to Kingshouse felt like a private shared experience, an inside joke, as Mary and I stuck in our earbuds and marched alone together to a playlist specially curated by Mary’s daughter – every now and then pointing to a stringy larch and mouthing “ha ha” to each other across the path.
And when I sat down to write today, the piece below is what came out: a shared, mostly interior, four hour moment as we merged with a wilder nature; a smattering of inside jokes as we trotted along. “What? Another waterfall?,” we mime. “The larch!,” we snicker and point.
To my credit, today’s private experience comes to you in the form of poetry! The beauty of a poem is that you get to make any meaning of it that you want. A poem is an experience you can pour yourself into, say, the next time you find yourself walking in the wind and rain. At the same time, I hope it means something specific to Mary.
A Walk on the Wild Side
Wild place
into you
we go dancing
full of wild thoughts
thoughts, feral
spin us
now set free
by an untamed wind
leftside wind
warrigal rain
two wild horses
half wet, half dry
undried tears
behind sunglasses
we will surrender
stumbling over mossy rocks
rock slaps
sprouting heather
not yet blooming
crazy beauty, still waiting
wild, still
having arrived
at an intersection
called middle of nowhere
where now?
feet up
considering the options
Forward, onward, we think
In other words, today was a perfect Kate Bush moment. Full of mood and power, dark and light, rough, rushing, flow. Having finished the first playlist, I pushed the button on the Kate Bush Essentials playlist (a must listen) and danced across the highlands. It was an uncontrollable need. As you can see.
Frankly, today’s miles were the moody, wild-wet, rugged ones I’d been waiting for. As I mentioned, it’s the kind of weather I associate with this place. The slanting rain was so fierce and directed it only got one half of us wet. We arrived at Kingshouse, one of Scotland's oldest inns, like two wet-dry yin/yangs with walking sticks.
As we sat down with our beers and potato chips to wait for our room in the woefully understaffed hotel, a stag, doe and fawn preened past the window walking regally across the parking lot. Within seconds a crowd of people with cellphones rolled to that side of the building, me and mine included. These are the only deer we’ve seen on the walk, despite stags being an icon of Scotland, so you can see the attraction. Mary and I almost blew beer out our noses as we imagined the star wagon hidden behind the hotel and a frantic worker from central casting queuing up the next trio in the hotel’s “Rugged Scotland” show.
During dinner, delicious, again, (vegan Wellington! Who knew?), a wave of fast-made friends trickled by the table. First Martin and Walter, the non-lovers from England and Germany, stopped by for a chat. Next came the American odd couple we haven’t quite managed to avoid despite our efforts. Finally the Scandinavian woman – who’s been carrying more than her body weight on her back – waved from the next table over. I admit, after meeting this lady, to feeling a wee bit guilty for our bougie luggage transfer. But mostly we just keep whistling: “You GO, girl!”
In all fairness, the Americans are a perfectly nice pair. It’s just that they stare and take uncomfortably long pauses. Seriously long, like pregnant with quadruplets-length pauses. More on the lesson they taught us later. When they finally left our table, we dragged our tired carcasses up to our room.
Have you ever been in a place where absolute opposites collide? Here we were, our aching bones sprawled across a comfy Kingshouse bed, peering out the window at the rocky hills where a river crosses an ancient military road, when Mary suggested we give in to our weariness and channel-surf. I, of course, snoot that I am, nodded, thinking “Cool, the BBC.”
Instead about three clicks in we land on a spectacular show. Never in a million years would I have expected to see what I saw in this show on a public television channel. But there it was: Naked Attraction.
Here’s the wiki gist: “A clothed person is faced with six naked people who are initially hidden in booths. Their bodies and faces are gradually revealed through successive rounds, from the feet up. At each round, the chooser eliminates one naked person until only two are left, when the chooser also takes off their clothes to make the final choice. The chooser then decides which person they wish to go out with, and the two (or, occasionally, three) then go for a fully clothed date.”
Apparently we had tuned in on the final round. Our jaws unhinged as a rotund and fully naked 50+ gal stood on one side of the screen, giving two fully naked elderly gents the up and down look-over. After a thoughtful pause, she picked the less cocky one. You might have had to pick us up off the floor, we were laughing so hard.
“Ohhhh myyyyy gaaaahd,” Mary howled.
“What the f@#$,” I snorted, throwing my self into a fit of hiccupping.
Seriously. I love the United Kingdom (forgiving their former imperialism for the moment). I love its honesty. I love its Benny Hill sensibilities.
I love its nakedness, inside on the telly and outside on this wild wild road.
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