A Boisterous Day

Normally a gale connotes dark skies and precipitation of some or all kinds, but it is possible to have gale force winds and clear sky. On such a day the wind is usually called boisterous--the kind of euphemism used for an unruly child pushing the limits of one's patience or a Puckish fairy whose ministrations may or may not have their intended consequences.

Just looking out the window suggested a good day, but the sound of the wind was all too familiar. But this day--boisterous or not--had to be given over to chores, so I dressed for town in the mixture of American and Scottish bits layered and fastened securely for a Puckish wind and set about the chores.

First into the car was Inkblot, the wild kitten who had walked into the live trap when I had given up hope of catching the elusive Big Black Cat. She will get a better quality of life after her visit if she does not batter herself into shreds against the walls of the cage. I know it's the right thing to do and maybe its the wind or the other appointment after the vet, but my nerves are already jangling.

Inkblot goes quietly enough into the vet's. And I say several times that she isn't my cat and every time I do, even I believe it less.

Then to the eye doctor's for a refit of the glasses my husband desperately needs. Success this time. My nerves relax a little or perhaps it is a slight easing of the wind.

A follow up visit to another medical person. A new doctor--they seem to change often and to be younger each time--but the same nurse. The doctor is taken aback by my husband's approach. I can feel the nurse smiling quietly beneath her professional demeanour. A few minutes later and we are all smiling and laughing together and then out into the wind again.

Inside the car, the wind loses its effect so we drive into the sunshine and explore some back roads. The light is enchanting, the gorse is outrageously yellow, the grass is eye poppingly green and the sea is flashing many shades of blue and white where she bares her teeth against the wind.

We drive all the way to John O Groats (Sadly, it is about as boring a place as Lonely Planet says it is) and turn just off the beaten path to the Old Schoolhouse now turned micro restaurant. Since it is run by just two people--mother and son, their hours are limited. We have never been able to get there before for a meal. Today we are in luck and it is a treat that must be the balm for all the ills of the day and more to come.

The ambience--it actually has ambience--is friendly and relaxing. There is a marvelous peat fire going and we sit right in front of it. The food and the service are just excellent and we meet someone who joins us and we have a wonderful conversation. The wind in this case has done us a great turn. We have a friend coming and we have booked this restaurant to share with him.

A quick stop with good friends on this side of the county and then back to the vet's where Inkblot is sitting Zen-like in modified meat loaf stance in the middle of the cage that she despised earlier. She rides home without a peep. She doesn't look drugged, so I bnegin to hope that she has achieved enlightenment. As soon as she is inside the house, the banshee wail returns. I open the cage and she is out and away. So much for enlightenment.