The Holy Roller's Road is Rocky - Yeah! The Path of the Roller Ain't Smooth - Hell, No! These are the hard won lessons gleaned from my infrequent incursions into the Poorly Remunerated World of the Factotum..or General Dogsbody. Plainly put, it involves Suckin' the Tail-Pipe of some Free Market Jerk-Off just so as he can toss you a pittance at the end of it all. All, in this instance, referring to some meaningless, manual task from which you are almost wholly Alienated!
Today I am newly arrived back into the Bosom of Stoned Holy H.Q subsequent to, once again, performing The Drifter's Escape n Hightailing it outta a Rain Lashed Argyll after some days passed at the sharp end of the Marxist Theory of Surplus Labour! Confused? Don't be - I was mostly to be found with a skillet in hand or popping yet another tray of Unsmoked Streaky into a hot oven. And as I Traversed the Restless Blue Waters that lie between Dunoon & Gourock I cast my eye across Landscapes Picaresque and fell into Pluvial Reveries.
Ah Argyll! Land of the Gael. Dalriada of Old. A Daisied Headland Combed by Salt-Laden Winds. A Land almost entirely fashioned from Hills heavy in Rowan & Pine, Cross-Hatched with Sea n Freshwater Lochs. The Southermost corner of Scotland's Over-Romanticised Highlands.....
Now, being an Unceasing Champion of Reason & Rationalism, one could be more Objective, but seeing as this isn't a column in a Scientific Journal, I feel at liberty to tell you Fine Fellows of the CyberNetherWorld, that I was, most verily, not in the Romantic Heelans at aw! Rather, I was in a Miles-From-Anywhere, Pokey, Presbyterian Shithole....& it was fucking Pissing Down! Still, one is where one finds oneself to be in this oh so short life we live. The Thing is to Buckle Down & Knuckle Under, Pull yir Socks Up n Make the Most of it....and oh aye, remember to bring yir Raincoat if you happen to make landfall in Argyllshire!
How they managed to Squeeeeze out a Way of Life in the Past in this Midge-Infested, Rain Sodden Dump is anyone's guess. Mind you, looking around The Globe, it strikes the S t o n e d H o l y B l o g g e r in no way surprising that there's little Pockets of Scotland dotted just about everywhere on the map. They simply couldnae wait to get the hell ooty here to find Newfoundlands n Wide Undisturbed Expanses to fill with their Mewling & Puking Bairns!
Y'see Scotland's High Lands are fine on Biscuit Tins & Packets of Shortie but when you come right down to it, the only thing it ever gave it's Highlanders of Times Past was a life of Back-Breakin' Toil on it's Hard, Uncompromising Geography. Gazing upon Lichen Fringed Boughs and Mossy Banks gave me the Inkling that the Rocky n Barren, Windswept n Rain-Battered Prospects of Caledonia cleared a lot more people from her hillsides than Cumberland's Pitiless Battalions or profit hungry, 'Modernising' Clan Chiefs looking for somewhere to put their wooly flocks. We're no' talking Fertile Crescents here after all and there's no way life expectancy coulda been that high. It simply must have been one of those rare Sunshiny days when this Corner of Creation does indeed look a Green & Pleasant land when the Scions of Scota first trudged ashore after their short sailing from their Hibernian Heartland and decided, for reasons known only to themselves, to hang about! But still, by no means, an Aboriginal Eden!
Maybe these Historical Notions subtly coloured my perceptions as I stared out the window at the dripping, wildly overgrown garden. Mist shrouded the tops of Leaden Hills. Unremitting Raindrops united with the Dark Waters of Loch Awe. Scattered Dwellings on Hillside & by Lochside sat sullenly in the deluge. Distant cars disappeared, engulfed by Hungry Hills. The lochs were Deep Gouges chiselled out by ice now filled to the brim in melt-water....maybe they were the Romantic Heelans after all!
What Watery Mysteries hide there in the nooks n crannies n crevices. Rills Cascaded down the dreichit cheeks of Weatherbeaten Hillsides standing Tall & Telling Tales of Ages Past & Wintry Blasts, Stories of Summer Storms & Campfires Warm, Whispers of Secret Trysts & Murky Mists. Who could resist the temptation to flirt with Melancholia whilst looking at those Bens n Braes, silent in the drizzle?
Ah wiz soaked to the core, it seems, my Heart chilled with Mountain Air....
& this wiz the Fuckin' Summer Still!!
What Depths a Temperament like mine would be Washed down to in Winter in a place such as that, I don't know! Best not Tempt Fate, Gentle Readers. Must remember to make a mental note - Never Travel North After October!!
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