The season was short, but sweet. Many tranquillising drumlins were scaled. Rare rays of Scots sunlight absorbed. Obscure items of local history tucked away inside my skull to be revealed to the innocent at a later date, to their exquisite boredom and mine.In short, just your average Scots rusticated bore out of town, pursuing the ancient habit of worrying peat.
The promised gilded silence will, by consequence, start to peel come Monday. It was just gold leaf, not golden through and through, I'm afraid...
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