Snailrail

I usually like trains. Not in an anorak wearing, hanging about on platforms with a notepad kind of way you understand, but the journeys. Relaxing, letting the train take the strain. I don't even mind the ticky-ticky sounds from other folks headphones, or my fellow passengers bawling "I'm on the train" into their mobile phones every few minutes.
The scenery speeding past, a fair degree of comfort and the fact that I can partake of a drink or two if I'm not driving at the other end makes up for the other minor inconveniences in my opinion. What it does not make up for though is taking ten and a half hours to cover the four hundred or so miles that is the return journey from Inverness to Edinburgh.
When the train actually leaves its original departure point 15 minutes late you know that something is fundamentally wrong with the system. Four stops into the journey and the delay has crept up to half an hour for no apparent reason.
At Perth the trolley-boy takes away all his drinky-poos and other goodies and goes home.
Not to worry,thought I, not long to go now.
Wrong. Broken down train on the line ahead. A further hour and a half in a desolate spot outside Inverkiething. This is not a good place to be, especially for the poor young chap who had over indulged on the trolley-boy's giggle-juice. He fell face first in the aisle, not once but a bone jarring two times on a dash to get to the loo before throwing up. He didn't make it.
Ah, but at least the journey home after an enjoyable, but leg wearying time in the capitol couldn't possibly be as bad.
Wrong. Brakes jammed on at Blair Atholl (did you know the Gaelic for Atholl is Athol, and do we really need bilingual signs at stations to tell us this?). Everyone transferred onto the following train and standing room only to Inverness. Oh joy.
Goodness knows what fate befell all those with onward connections to catch from these trains. They're probably still in transit.
An average speed of under forty miles per hour and all costing pretty much what the petrol would have. This has put me off Scotrail or Firstrail or whatever they are calling themselves today (turns out that the spell check comes up with Frustrate for Firstrail, so that'll be right enough then).
I haven't yet been put off Edinburgh, but if the city fathers succeed in their determination to make the place a car free zone then the next time I'm looking for the big city buzz I think I'll be driving to Glasgow.

Welcome to Mudville

Autumn is here and we're all ankle deep in leaves. It's a bit breezy at the moment so we may be digging our way through drifts of the things by the weekend. It's been wet recently too. As it's a clay based soil here the water hangs around in the ground for a while making for a right guttery, gloopy mess.
Of course Rowan pays no attention to this as he ploughs through in hot pursuit of rabbits.
An equation for your consideration:
Dog plus Mud over Carpet squared equals root of Viking Queen's annoyance.
All of which makes it rather ironic that the street was out of water the other morning when we had a house full of visitors. Not Scottish Waters fault for a change. Some plumbers along the road turned the wrong valve.
Guess that'll bring down our rating with Orkney and Shetland Tourism. I think that there have been so many viking visitors this year that wemay have had an undercover rep here recently!
Two visitors from Rothes and another two sets from Shetland in the space of a fortnight!!
We know that it's those autumnal trees and scenery that you all really come here to see, not us...well maybe Rowan too.

You know who you all are,and it was good to see everyone again.

Off to Edinburgh for the weekend, by train. What was all that about leaves on the line?