Sleeping policemen

There are sleeping policemen on the road to Pitlochry. At least, that’s what Jean calls them. Great humps of raised tarmac, caused one imagines by the melting ice and snow bloating under the road surface to create natural speed bumps. But they rise up without a warning sign, and we bang our heads repeatedly on the roof of the car as we hurtle over them.

Other hazards on this road are subject to a more rigorous alert system:

Which makes me think that their parents, the more worldly sheep, must be street-wise. Their babes, however, are not yet familiar with the crossing code of Look Left Look Right Look Left Again, and signs like these are regularly dotted along the roadside:

Our expedition today is to Blair Castle, so Mark can enjoy the elf hunt, a Christmas tradition. Handmade elves are dotted around the castle rooms, the initials of their names spelling out a carol. But first we are given hot spiced mulled ginger wine.

“It’s non-alcoholic!” chirrups the volunteer lady guide, who stands warming herself in the castle ballroom, in front of a blazing log fire.

“And keep your coats on, it’s vairy cold in the castle.” She is not wrong, it is freezing. One wonders how posh people could bear to live in such draughty conditions back in the olden days. I reckon their tenants were far better off in a cosy cottage with only a small low-ceiled room to heat. Interestingly, as we leave the tour and enter the Gift Shop, it is toasty warm. A canny Scottish plot to ensure visitors hang around to de-thaw and spend some money?

Mark gives up on the elves, he is more interested in the stags heads that line every wall and the armaments – swords, bayonets, lancets and cannons – that are on display. The Blair Athol clan sure were a warlike lot and mighty strong. I can hardly lift the bayonets and the suits of armour worn by these warriors as they charged the enemy would surely have had most horses on their knees. The ladies were more dainty, I think, judging by their jewellery. Although bracelets made of hair intertwined with that of their loved one are a bit gruesome.

The riddle was Once in Royal David’s City, easily solved by finding the first elves busy around the Christmas tree, wrapping parcels, namely: Norman, Oswald, Ewan and Cameron.

Back in the village I pop to the store. Belinda is there, posting a letter to Australia.

“I had a phone call from a friend in Australia this morning,” I say.

“She told me it was 40 degrees, and she was sitting on her balcony sipping champagne, wearing only her bikini.

“I told her I was snuggled under my doona with the electric blanket on, looking out at the snow.”

“I hope you told her you were also wearing your bikini under the bedclothes,” quipped Belinda.

Later, I sent Mark to buy roasting bags. Barry, the store manager, was highly amused, if not bemused, and said he hadn’t heard of anyone roasting meat in bags since the 1960s.

“Is that what you do in Australia?” he asked. Mark assured him it was. I foresee this culinary practice will soon be the talk of the village and I will be pressed to support my position in this matter.

Jo, the publican’s wife was also in the shop. Barry asked her opinion.

“Cook chicken in a plastic bag? That would not be a good idea,” she opines.

Val, on the other hand, later tells me that she recently cooked a very tasty leg of boar in a bag. This, m’lud, will be my defence in the Court of Village Cooks, Hawthorn v The Rest.