Inferior Design – Part Blah-Blah Of A Series Notes On The Glen Of The Mad
High on the rocky crags of the Glen of Insanity is an ice-hollowed little corrie with a dark little lochan in the bottom, shining like a black opal. On that lochan there is a tiny island with barely enough room for the three ancient, wind-blasted trees that grow there, reaching their tortured, arthritic limbs to the black sky, which happens to be only 7 inches from their highest twigs.
[See Scotland, for all its majesty and towering crags has a design flaw. Great mountains rear heavenward like some glorious natural cathedral but somebody, somebody went over budget with the rich purple heather swags and noble red deer and, come time to crown their majestic creation (meant to suggest to man something of the great vaults of heaven, after flippen all!), all they could afford for the roof was a low slate-grey ceiling of cloud. A ceiling so low it has brylcream marks on - this is the sky in Scotland.
The land is a tease. The book says to expect lofty peaks and wheeling eagles and the visitor's eye is swept upwards in an exultation of granite and awe. Then... just when the eye is primed, expecting a soaring celestial firmament of cerulean and Michaelangelo cumulonimbi... well then the eye smooshes up against the soggy grey anticlimax of a manky raincloud ceiling; the magnificent vista is ruined, foreshortened by foreshorten-sighted philistines and shifty bandit builders. The eye is well pissed off and wishes it had gone to Switzerland like its naggy partner on the other side of the nose had wanted in the first place. The vision was Chartres Cathedral, the execution resembled a bungalow sitting-room with pretentious murals.
You see, way back at the dawn of time, due to an administrative error, Scotland's wild places were contracted out to a heavenly cowboy outfit. (I'm afraid there are bad tradesmen even in heaven. Be sure to have them put some washers and a Black&Decker in the coffin with you when you go - if you're expecting to go to heaven. For hell, take light summer clothes in some sort of easy-to-pack non-creasing asbestos material.) Haloes rolled, I'll tell you, when God got wind of it. All heaven broke loose. Wings were clipped and for two weeks there was Reddy Brek instead of Ambrosia at every meal in the Angelic Guild of Roofers and Plasterers. It was a dark blip in the eternal bliss of paradise.]
But, the reason I’ve dragged you up to this particular corrie in such dreadful weather is because I want you to look very closely at the three twisted trees on the island in the lochan. Watch them as they start to twitch in a way quite independant of the wind. Observe how the claw-like topmost branches suddenly look more like flesh than wood, and 3 pairs of knobby hands begin to twist and writhe and tear at the air. Note how filthy are the long yellow fingernails, and how papery is the peelie-wallie skin. If you peer very squintily, a package of reduced-calorie digestive biscuits can be seen clutched in one of the plumper hands.
Then watch with me as the three trees transform themselves, slowly, slowly, all the way down to the mossy ground into three black-robed witches, with pointy hats and hairy warts and everything. Overhead an eagle pierces the night with an unearthly scream.
*
“It’s perishing, Effie, why do we always have to do this at night? I’m missing Eastenders and John-Murdo thinks I’m having an affair, the amount of times we’ve been having meetings lately.”
“We’re witches, you silly old moo, it’s traditional. Witches meet at night in barren spots, that’s what we do” said the tallest, witchiest looking one. “Shut up and pass me the tea flask. And don’t jiggle. I swear this island gets smaller every time.”
“Who’s ‘ot i hours ogh i last neeting?” said the smallest, plumpest witch, trying to open the biscuit packet with her teeth. (Witches’ covens don’t have minutes for their meetings because minutes don’t sound as eldritch as hours.) “Ah got it!” For a moment there was some enthusiastic munching. “Are we using proper names tonight?”
“We’d better.” said Effie, clearing her throat. ” A-hhhhughhh, a-hhhhukh, hhhukh. I call this coven to order. Present are Euphemia Pearworm MacAuley, The Bony And The Fierce; Mabel-Critterhorn MacLeod, The Bony And The Vaingloriou; and Chrissy-Peigi Screwtoe Mackenzie, The Dumpy And The Determined – Dark Sistren Three of the Inner, Outer, Upper and Downer Hebrides. When did we three meet last?”
“You know fine well it was last night,” said Mabel, impatiently tapping a hobnailed boot. “Look, do we have to go through all this? The Glen of Insanity gives me the creeps. Why couldn’t we use the Scout Hall again? At least they’ve got a kettle.”
“Chrissy-Peigi lost the key,” growled Effie.
“We’re witches, we don’t need an effing key!” screeched Mabel, doing a ghetto sistah side-to-side head thing and waving a taloned finger “Oh no, uhn-uhn!”
“Oh lets just get on with it, the rain’s blowing right in my ears,” said Chrissy-Peigi. “Yesterday two more sane people walked right through the glen and came out completely unmad, except for a new-found appreciation for the work of James Blunt. What are we going to do to fix that, eh? By the way, did anyone bring a wee nip o’something to keep the weather out? Oh, lovely Mabel. Nobody makes gooseberry schnapps like you do, dear. Cheers!”
To Be Continued…
November 27th, 2007 at 11:09 pm
GOOSEBERRY SCHNAPPS!!!! How delicious.
Appreciation for the work of James Blunt is to me veritable PROOF of pure madness. Pure madness, of the kind that likes wailing and complaining and moaning and bitching and angsting.
I can’t wait for the next installment!
November 27th, 2007 at 11:21 pm
Ah, it’s great to see those old girls doing a comeback gig after MacBeth!
November 27th, 2007 at 11:35 pm
Such a perfect evokation of the Scottish sky, not to mention explanation: I wondered why it was thus. And today that grey cloud came right down to the ankles of even very short people like me.
Itching for the next installment, I do love a series!
November 27th, 2007 at 11:47 pm
Carolyn – Mabel Critterhorn’s gooseberry schnapps is like no other. She’s a virtuoso with the gooseberry. Her steak ‘n’ gooseberry pie’s not to be missed.
Nanas, in the theeyater they much prefer to be played by Dame Maggie Smith, Vanessa Redgrave and Dame Judi but the theeyater so seldom gets to Horgabost. They can’t seem too keen on watching MacBeth on the telly either for to the world they are merely the Spinster MacAuley (who doesn’t have a telly), Mrs. “Gives Herself Airs” MacLeod and The Wee Pudding Lady O’ The Ducks.
November 27th, 2007 at 11:55 pm
Eryl – strange to say but I’m missing it. I was born to live in gloomy places. This sunshine carry-on is great and all but I just don’t dermatologicaly fit here. I have to slather on unguent just to go to the post-box. And its just so samey. Never happy, we humans, are we. The rain is always wetter on the other side of the fence, is it not. Sorry for leaving you out there btw. I had to answer the door (FedEx lady) and then nature’s call (piddle).
November 28th, 2007 at 2:36 am
Chrissy-Peigi Screwtoe Mackenzie, The Dumpy And The Determined
She’s the one I identify with the most.
And no amount of insanity excuses and affinity for James Blunt.
November 28th, 2007 at 6:33 am
All heaven broke loose. Pure class!
November 28th, 2007 at 11:52 am
Northern Ireland had the same builders in I think. When I was back at the weekend I swear I lost a couple of inches (in height… me granny was stuffing me full of cake) due to the low pressure system bearing down on the top of my head.
November 28th, 2007 at 12:45 pm
The vision was Chartres Cathedral, the execution resembled a bungalow sitting-room with pretentious murals.
I read the above and got nostalgic for my grandmother’s living room. Thanks for that.
Cheers.
November 28th, 2007 at 1:37 pm
Wonderful bit of writing.
If I get to my final resting place and discover there’s DIY to be done there, I’ll know which way I went, and it won’t be good.
I love the Scottish skies and Scottish weather in general. All my life I craved rain with all my heart, and now here I am having to pretend that it depresses me as much as it clearly depresses everyone around me. “Ugly weather,” someone will say on a beautifully misty, rainy day, and I have the hardest time wiping the grin off my face long enough to lie. Perhaps I’ll just stop trying to pretend and then they’ll REALLY think I’m nuts.
November 28th, 2007 at 4:23 pm
Can you go over budget on heather?
November 28th, 2007 at 5:45 pm
Well, see, if this is going to be a series, you’ll need a cheesy musical intro. Maybe a song by that fool with the kilt — what was he called? Andy Stewart! That’s him. He used to sing all that stuff about high roads and low roads and middle roads and tunnels and flyovers (the sea to Skye). And stuff.
You could have a bit at the start where all the actors kinda look windswept and turn around to smile at the camera, and wave to each other from speed-boats. And helicopters. And punch bad guys.
It would be great.
November 29th, 2007 at 1:11 am
Excellent, excellent Sam. Great fun and major surprises. BTW, we also have those arthritic trees and I had tenuous relationships with each of those three beautiful girls. Rum and black was the tipple of choice camouflaging the gaps in their teeth, many rum and blacks. All went to the Salesian convent where they learnt to be bendy. Credit to the nuns.
November 29th, 2007 at 6:10 pm
Kara, what’s up with your toe?
Sneezy, at least all heaven breaking loose would be something to break the interminable bliss. Flat-lining bliss sounds tedious. After, a while, how would you know it was bliss? It would need to waver a bit to be any fun at all. Everlasting bliss sounds God-awful. Awful in both the terrible and awe-inspiring senses. Wouldn’t your head explode? All that bliss would make my fillings hurt.
Rand, well you couldn’t be nostalgic for it of your granny hadn’t been lovely, pretentious murals aside. We all have our weaknesses. was she a Missouri lady too?
Mary, for all our complaining though, give the Scots a week of glorious sun and we’re all flopping around like dying haddock, moaning about how hot it is and how we need rain to “freshen the air.”
fmc, this was some top-drawer Italian fine-grain calf-heather, specially shipped from Milan with tissue paper and a rose. Continental woman would stab each other in the eye with a stiletto for shoes made of such butter-soft heather. Bees fall into dead swoons.
Bock, I’d have to be on a chemically-induced high road before I’d let Andy Stewart near me opus but I’m liking the speedboats. Windswept won’t be a problem – red cheeks and runny noses could affect production though. Ruddy isn’t very Hollywood is it? I’m sure snotty isn’t. But we could be the breakout film for wellie-fashions, making the stalwart Wellington boot sexy again. I mean if Ugg can do it … Wellie boots: the new black.
Sniffle, I had to Google the Salesians. Did you know they have an “Adopt A Sister” Programme? And their foundress was St. Mary Mazzarello (or the Big Holy Cheese as she’s known). Credit to them indeed. Bendiness is a virtue at any age.
November 29th, 2007 at 10:53 pm
A few years back my sister met a Scottish couple in Death Valley. They claimed to be from Aberdeen and were richly, deeply, tanned; they said that they adored the desert and would never go home. It has been my experience that when it comes to sun-worshipping, the Scots are right up there with the Scandinavians. Which geographically, I suppose they are.
Me, I’ll take the rain.
November 29th, 2007 at 11:54 pm
They must have had themselves kippered or something before they left. Scots usually just p&p, pinken and peel. You’re right though, there are exceptions. My dad’s a fairly swarthy guy. Sun or no sun though, with all of the wide amazing country of America to choose from, Mr. and Mrs. MacLeatherface sought out possibly the bleakest, most inhospitable nook of the land.
November 30th, 2007 at 2:17 pm
Sam, as I recall from your description of the asshole who used bad pick-up lines in the pub, you are as pale as cream. Take care of it with the SPF.
Loved the witches.
November 30th, 2007 at 7:56 pm
Sam, Sam, Sam, when are we going to hear your dulcet tones on the Storytellers Blog again?
November 30th, 2007 at 10:26 pm
the James Blunt version of the bible says “suffer not a witch to live, BURN THEM!” er sorry I get carried away or will someday.
November 30th, 2007 at 11:18 pm
I would too miss the rain and mist, I particularly like the mist. For one thing it provides an excuse to wear tweed which I love, and green jumpers. Though I do like a bit of sun too. It is sameyness that grates.
Judging by the number of ‘tanning’ salons that are popping up all over the Scots like their sunshine in a controlled environment. Perhaps you should work on inventing the ’soft rain’ salon for the California market, so much better for the complexion and it wouldn’t turn anyone orange.
December 1st, 2007 at 8:46 am
So your parents live in Compton? In Belgium where there is no sun to speak of, and it rains every day, my skin is happy but my hair is not. Hence the fruity hat. Your story is masterful, I particularly liked the CGI parts.
December 2nd, 2007 at 2:53 am
Only been to Scotland twice: for the Edinburgh Festival in 2005 with my newly-beloved (it rained) and then a year later further north-west after our Mediterranean honeymoon to meet the legions of family as my wife has a lot of Scots ancestry (it rained again. Then it rained some more. Then it really rained).
Still, I love the country, brought up as I was on John Buchan and Robert Louis Stevenson and The Wicker Man. Must organise a trip back there some time.
December 2nd, 2007 at 11:37 am
That’s the best description of a lowering (in every sense) Scottish sky to date.
I don’t know tho’ Sam – summer clothes makes Hell sound a bit good and I’m aiming higher. It’s a kivekty atmospheric piece and I’m really feeling Macbeth. Not a word to Bessie!
BTW does anyone else think that James Blunt with his new tache and beard is a dead ringer for Jesus?
I always try to edit my comments but I’m bothered if I\ know what Kivekty is meant to be.
December 3rd, 2007 at 1:24 am
Medbh, I have to spend a fortune on the stuff for the girls and me. 50+ spf every day. Woe betide us if it gets in our eyes. For the rest of the day kind people will be asking what the matter is because we look like we’ve been howling upset.
Kim, dunno. I’ve forgotten how to do it. Things are ratcheting up for Christmas but maybe this week sometime.
Knoods, I bet he butchered The song Of Solomon.
Eryl, they have tanning salons here too. In Southern California! What’s that about?
Daphne, I am too stupid to know what CGI means. Clinton Global Initiative? I did throw elements of worldwide fundraising in there but I thought they’d be too subtle for anyone to catch. My parents live in the western Isles. They can only dream of living in Compton.
Pat, Jesus looked like Robert Powell, everyone knows that. I like Kivetky. It sounds like one of Auntie M’s grain of rice words. Too much importance is attached to words having meaning, I reckon. It’s a form of wordo-fascism that’s taken root over these last scores of millennia.
December 3rd, 2007 at 2:55 am
Foots, missed ya! Glad you’re back, old chum.
Go in May or June. Or September/October.
December 3rd, 2007 at 2:39 pm
Musta been the same celestial builders that built Ireland, but with less budget. Our mountains are a lot less magnificent. As a Chilean friend of mine sniffed when presented with the Dublin Mountains, “Mountains! They are barely hills”. When you have the Andes in your back garden you can be forgiven slagging off Irish, “mountains”.
Schnapps, gooseberry or otherwise makes me feel queasy. Has to do with a few misspent nights in my teens. *Shudder*
December 3rd, 2007 at 4:29 pm
So happy to read some more of your great stuff! I love these tales from Scotland! Before you I only had Robin Pilcher to count on.
December 4th, 2007 at 12:24 am
John, I’ve never been sure exactly where the Andes are. Only that they’re at the end of the armies.
Look, don’t worry. Somebody’ll be along in a minute to give me a good slapping.
I feel your schnapps shudder, by the way. Peach. 1994. Cornflakes everywhere.
Jali, but Robin Pilcher writes fiction! Every word of this is the absolute, honest-to-Godness truth. Every last poorly chosen word is fact, plain and facty. I wouldn’t count too much on Pilcher though. I once counted on John Updike to much. It was my undoing.
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