Read Online Season in Strathglass by John; Fowler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John; Fowler
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academic who hailed her as a primitive of genius. Alas, her fame didn't last. Why the Wheel? Even George who knows everything doesn't know that, only that she came from a long line of Wheels.
And there were the genteel females, not young, who booked into Upper Glassburn while attending an alternative lifestyle retreat nearby called the Centre of Light. âI called them Linda's Lassies,â says George. âThey tended to be women of a certain age. I suppose they spent their time chanting and banging drums and communing with the spiritual.â One guest would eat nothing cooked â to Ishbel's dismay, all her meals were âraw fruitarianâ (not my phrase â I read it in a newspaper). Heaped bean sprouts were a staple. But then Linda moved her Centre of Light elsewhere with accommodation provided and now bean sprouts are off the menu at Upper Glassburn.
In the long evenings at George and Ishbel's, George, whisky in hand, can be persuaded to reminisce. From his time at the Cnoc Hotel, there's his tale of the English barrister, very pukka, clipped of speech, stiff-backed as befits a former officer in the Guards. But it was the wife who wore the trousers. She managed everything, even laying out his clothes in the morning, though not always to his satisfaction. âGeorge,â he said at breakfast parade, as he called it (always at eight hundred hours precisely), âGeorge,â he said, âI found 16 points of error in my kit today.â Then, sotto voce: âSay nothing â wife watching.â
One night when all the guests had retired to bed, perhaps after a nightcap or two, strange sounds were heard overhead. Thump, thump, thump, then silence. Thump, thump, thump again. And so on. George and Ishbel were somewhat alarmed. George decided to investigate and as he reached the top of the stairs he was confronted by the barrister marching down the corridor, stark naked. He snapped smartly to attention, looked George straight in the eye and without a word strode on. At this point, a bedroom door opened and a woman's arm reached out, grabbed the naked barrister by the neck and pulled him inside.
Next morning, he appeared immaculately turned out as usual, not at the stipulated eight hundred hours but five minutes early. âAppalling behaviour, George,â he said stiffly. âAre you going to throw me out?â George assured him he wouldn't but was unable to confirm that no one else had seen the episode. All through breakfast, as the guests entered and were hailed by George â âAnd did you sleep well?â â the barrister suffered agonies of embarrassment while his wife sat stony-faced.
Once, Tom Sharpe, the satirical novelist ( Porterhouse Blue and the Wilt novels), and his wife called at Upper Strathglass for afternoon tea and decided to stay the night. At dinner, George observed him moving from table to table between courses, seating himself with different guests in turn. George was puzzled and quizzed him about it later.
Research, answered Sharpe. Talking to strangers gave him ideas for his books â a story here, a catchphrase there, an anecdote, a line of dialogue, a quirky detail, a character study. Thus Mrs Sharpe had learned to eat alone.
George, I imagine, didn't mention the naked barrister.
27
Upper Glassburn, evening. I arrive to find George and Ishbel sitting with two hillwalking guests, David and Alastair, a glass in their hands. I get a dram too. David is burly, stoutish, a retired schoolmaster from Oxford. Alastair's lean, an actuary in Edinburgh â possibly he attacks hills as a relief from his desk job. He's a Munroist, now polishing off the peaksaround Affric, Glen Cannich and Strathfarrar â two today. David follows behind. He says he aims from one boulder ahead to the next, so his hill climbing is calibrated by the higher stones. Today he sat on a rock in the sunshine while Alastair pushed to the top.
Alistair spreads out a map
And there were the genteel females, not young, who booked into Upper Glassburn while attending an alternative lifestyle retreat nearby called the Centre of Light. âI called them Linda's Lassies,â says George. âThey tended to be women of a certain age. I suppose they spent their time chanting and banging drums and communing with the spiritual.â One guest would eat nothing cooked â to Ishbel's dismay, all her meals were âraw fruitarianâ (not my phrase â I read it in a newspaper). Heaped bean sprouts were a staple. But then Linda moved her Centre of Light elsewhere with accommodation provided and now bean sprouts are off the menu at Upper Glassburn.
In the long evenings at George and Ishbel's, George, whisky in hand, can be persuaded to reminisce. From his time at the Cnoc Hotel, there's his tale of the English barrister, very pukka, clipped of speech, stiff-backed as befits a former officer in the Guards. But it was the wife who wore the trousers. She managed everything, even laying out his clothes in the morning, though not always to his satisfaction. âGeorge,â he said at breakfast parade, as he called it (always at eight hundred hours precisely), âGeorge,â he said, âI found 16 points of error in my kit today.â Then, sotto voce: âSay nothing â wife watching.â
One night when all the guests had retired to bed, perhaps after a nightcap or two, strange sounds were heard overhead. Thump, thump, thump, then silence. Thump, thump, thump again. And so on. George and Ishbel were somewhat alarmed. George decided to investigate and as he reached the top of the stairs he was confronted by the barrister marching down the corridor, stark naked. He snapped smartly to attention, looked George straight in the eye and without a word strode on. At this point, a bedroom door opened and a woman's arm reached out, grabbed the naked barrister by the neck and pulled him inside.
Next morning, he appeared immaculately turned out as usual, not at the stipulated eight hundred hours but five minutes early. âAppalling behaviour, George,â he said stiffly. âAre you going to throw me out?â George assured him he wouldn't but was unable to confirm that no one else had seen the episode. All through breakfast, as the guests entered and were hailed by George â âAnd did you sleep well?â â the barrister suffered agonies of embarrassment while his wife sat stony-faced.
Once, Tom Sharpe, the satirical novelist ( Porterhouse Blue and the Wilt novels), and his wife called at Upper Strathglass for afternoon tea and decided to stay the night. At dinner, George observed him moving from table to table between courses, seating himself with different guests in turn. George was puzzled and quizzed him about it later.
Research, answered Sharpe. Talking to strangers gave him ideas for his books â a story here, a catchphrase there, an anecdote, a line of dialogue, a quirky detail, a character study. Thus Mrs Sharpe had learned to eat alone.
George, I imagine, didn't mention the naked barrister.
27
Upper Glassburn, evening. I arrive to find George and Ishbel sitting with two hillwalking guests, David and Alastair, a glass in their hands. I get a dram too. David is burly, stoutish, a retired schoolmaster from Oxford. Alastair's lean, an actuary in Edinburgh â possibly he attacks hills as a relief from his desk job. He's a Munroist, now polishing off the peaksaround Affric, Glen Cannich and Strathfarrar â two today. David follows behind. He says he aims from one boulder ahead to the next, so his hill climbing is calibrated by the higher stones. Today he sat on a rock in the sunshine while Alastair pushed to the top.
Alistair spreads out a map
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