Travel Reference
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Cheerfully unrealistic optimism can be such a comfort.
South across the Black Isle and the Kessock Bridge - a handsome example of a cable-
stayed bridge, with an almost arrogant lack of cross-bracing between the towers - through
Grantown - stopping for ice creams, because of the heat - then on to our base for the rest
of the week.
We're in chalet three at the Glenlivet Holiday Lodges. Almost disappointingly, the
Glenlivet Holiday Lodges really are quite close to Glenlivet, only a couple of miles away
from the distillery. There's a wonderful, very peaceful view to the south west towards the
Hills of Cromdale, a bar/restaurant called the Poacher's Bar with a pool table, and a vari-
ety of forest walks starting pretty much from the door step. The track up to the place from
the B9009 is a bit rough but the Jag's old-fashioned, deep-side-walled tyres cope without
a grumble. The chalet itself is fine and even has a sauna, not that we use it. Only mobile
reception is a problem, and we end up wandering around in the grass outside the chalet
waving our phones in the air trying to get a signal. The old red callbox outside the Poach-
er's Bar gets used quite a lot as I call home and we try to keep in touch with Jim, who,
when we do get hold of him, says he hopes to head back north on the Wednesday.
Steaks at the bar, then a circular stroll along a forestry track where the trees have
all been harvested, so that we walk surrounded by the bleached wreckage of stumps and
shattered branches. Ben Rinnes rises browny-purple in the north, a swept line of ridge
leading to a tipped table of summit.
Dave looks at me. 'How's your brain these days, Banksie? Does it work? Is it alert?
Up for challenges?'
I groan. 'Oh, God, you've brought that game with you, haven't you?'
'Aye! But it's easy once you get used to it.'
'Is it still in nine dimensions?'
'Yeah, but like I say, it's easy once you get used to it.'
The poison pen method has been resorted to (long story). Wine has been taken. Whiskies
are before us. Not to mention behind us, around us and indeed inside us. Our fine and
filling meal at the Poacher's Bar seems long ago now and we're still drinking and Dave's
giving me a brief run-through of the rules to this game he's been working on for the last
few years; he's up to about page 21 at the moment (he's brought a printout of the short
version of the rules).
I'm sitting at the wooden table in the chalet feeling a little the better for wear, scratch-
ing my head and staring down at the nine, square, seven-by-seven laminated cardboard
boards that Dave's placed side by side on the table's surface along with all the relevant
cards, pieces and assorted gubbins the game obviously requires. This is all very confus-
ing. I'm not at all sure I've taken in anything apart from alcohol and smoke for the last
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