Sunday, July 31st

Magnus and I stood in the middle of the tattie field, surrounded by purple flowers and hazy air, talking about the existence, or otherwise, of God. 

“It is easier to believe in God as an extension of nature, rather than an old man with a beard and open-toed sandals,” Magnus said. 

“Remember, though, that there are thunderstorms forecast for today, and we are standing in the middle of a tattie field,” I said. “God might say, ‘so you don’t believe in me, eh boys,’ as he sends down a bolt of lightning. And, by the way, what’s wrong with open-toed sandals?” 

We rogued tatties all day, then at 6 pm, headed down to the Drum Inn again. I rode along with Jen in her Super MX-5 sports car, top-down, music pumping, and shades on. At the pub, we all sat outside, drinking in the warm, hazy evening light. We had African and Andean music playing on the car stereo, and the conversation was varied. They all tore my faithful old shirt off my back, as it was shredded beyond use. Each of us took a piece of material, faded by the light of a thousand suns, and made a headband from it. Magnus reckoned that it was such a well-travelled shirt that it had good karma. 

It was a perfect, relaxing evening, with a traveller’s ambience about it, but as it got dark, we had to move on, over to Jen and Magnus’s parents’ place for drinks, then down to the Northern Lights pub at Fintree. A gentle rain was falling, but the night was still warm, and we spent an hour or so at the pub, crowded with Sunday night drinkers. 

Back at the house, we said goodbye to Jen and Magnus, exchanging promises to meet again somewhere out in the world. During the night, there was a massive thunderstorm, with huge thunderclaps seeming to come from directly overhead, which shook the bothy¹ in a most alarming way.
¹A bothy is a small cottage or one-roomed hut