Sometimes, fortune favors those stuck in a remote town with a dead battery. It sounds crazy, but stick with me.
Being a woman of a law abiding nature, I’m generally opposed to theft – so I didn’t steal the sheep mug from the cottage, even though I really wanted it. I mean, who wouldn’t want a mug covered in drawings of sheep that say things like “32 GB Ram?” No sane person I know would ever think that mug was tacky or undeserving of the coveted “favorite mug” title.
It was clear that the owner of the cottage had no idea where that mug came from. It showed up in the cupboard, just to tempt me into theft for the week we were in Scotland. I was doomed to a sheep mugless life: a grey existence indeed.
Halfway through the week, we had an odd day, which will henceforth be known as the Cursed Day. Not any major, life-altering curses – just small ones that really irritate you.
On Wednesday, one of our friends on the trip started the day off by sewing some buttons onto her shirt. She sewed them on backwards.
Another friend forgot the dog’s lead and had to improvise one with some rope.
I had an epic fail with the Demon Sweater – so much so that Sue had to physically take it away from me so I wouldn’t frog the entire thing, set it on fire, or watch it sail over a waterfall in a makeshift canoe. (Read more about the evil Demon Sweater here.)
That afternoon, we made our way to the Old Man Of Storr. I knitted at the top of the mountain for about 90 seconds before the wind almost knocked me off of a cliff face – but it was a stunning view and a vigorous hike, and it was awesome. Coming down the mountain, I nearly took out an entire group of Japanese tourists as I stumbled and tumbled down the steep path. Sorry, guys.
Quite the adventure today: I may have conquered this mountain, but I haven’t conquered this sweater yet! The sleeves were too wide so I’ll be pulling out about 5 inches and reworking them. Yes, I am knitting near the top of a mountain: it is #wipwednesday after all! (Psst: follow @laughinghens and tag your makes, they feature makes on Wednesdays!)
We headed to Portree, a village that’s known for quirky, eclectic shops and gorgeous views. When we rolled into the large parking lot, it began to rain so hard that the dogs straight up refused to get out of the car. Whatever, dudes, your loss. We wandered around the village in shifts, keeping one person with the princess puppies who wouldn’t get their delicate fur wet (unless it was by rolling in a super gross mud puddle, which was apparently totally fine).
We wandered through the whisky shop, through Batik stores and little craft stores that sold locally made artisan works. We also found a disappointing yarn store that didn’t offer anything locally made or dyed. We contemplated buying fiddle music. We mused on the futility of human existence over a tea.We returned to the car, and we all got ready to set off home. Val put the key into the ignition:
“Tick tick tick tick”
She tried it again:
“Tick tick tick”
The battery was dead.
Val called her breakdown service (like AAA for my American friends), and they said it would be at least an hour wait. Not a woman to sit in the car (especially without my knitting), I put on my ugly plastic poncho (which was sopping wet at this point) and headed back into the rain. We’d already made a loop around the village and stopped in most of the shops, but I was on a quest for reliable wi-fi to post on Instagram (I know, I know).
What’s that around the cover, down that alley? Another village shop we hadn’t visited yet?
My wife and I stumbled into the shop, dripping wet and soaked to the bone. And there it was: sitting under a heavenly beam of light, stacked on top of ugly tourist mugs that said “My wife went to Scotland and all I got was this bloody mug”: the sheep mug.
I snatched it off the shelf, yelling “OH MY GOD BABE, LOOK! I FOUND IT! I FOUND THE SHEEP MUG!”
It’s pretty evident now that I probably looked like a deranged American tourist; I have no doubts that those quiet French tourists who were also in the shop are probably telling their family now what loud idiots Americans are. But they will never understand what the sheep mug means to me, a quirky crafter with odd interests. It means that sometimes, there is a silver lining. And sometimes that silver lining looks like a ridiculous sheep mug.
We got home safe and sound after a friendly local mechanic fitted us with a new battery. We had fish and chips for dinner, and for once I didn’t forget my wife’s mushy peas. We watched Bake Off (of course) at 8pm that night, and I drank my coffee out of the sheep mug the next morning.
Today, it was graced with the first posh Bailey’s hot chocolate of the season: it is October first, after all. 😉
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