Friday 19 September 2008

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I managed to get away from work on Friday by about 3:30, which meant that I was already about half an hour behind schedule. Plan was to get to Fort Augustus for 8pm to meet Paul. As it was, because we didn't know whether we'd be able to get something to eat in the Fort by that time, we'd decided that it'd be better just for us to make arrangements en route, as it were.

I stopped in Callander, and invested in a sausage supper, of which the wee black dug thoroughly approved.

The traffic was pretty rubbish all the way, so the end result was that I arrived at the campsite to be met by a firmly shut gate.


I walked in and found Paul, and we both sort of thought that although the notice on the gate said "no new admissions tonight" that didny really mean me, because they knew I was coming , and he was there anyway. I was halfway through the pitching operation when the owner drove up and pointed out that the sign meant what it said, that they had to have rules, that it wasn't a case of accepting apologies etc, etc. It was only with a tremendous display of negotiating skills, some world class grovelling, and whining that I'd stayed there before, that permission to stay was granted.

It's fair enough - I should have booked it properly. For future reference though, the gates shut at 7:30, and they don't take bookings for tents, and they won't have "groups" of more than 2 anyway. It's a smashing wee site though, and at least two pubs in the town - which is only about 5 minutes walk away - take dogs, so that's important.

Few beers in the Bothy Bar. And a few rums, in honour of it still being ITLAPD. When that place shut (and we'd already had a mini lock-in anyway) we wandered back towards the campsite. Our attention was attracted to another pub with an open door, which seemed to be in the middle of some sort of musical event, so we had a wee nosy. Result! People were quite happy to give you a loan of a guitar, and the bar staff were quite happy to sell us drink, so that worked out jolly well.

The locals were accordingly treated to drunken, slightly misfiring versions of Master of Disaster and Ye Jacobites. John Hiatt songs work no' bad with accordion and bodhran.

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