"There is scarcely any writer who has not celebrated the happiness of rural privacy, and delighted himself and his reader with the melody of birds, the whisper of groves, and the murmur of rivulets. " ~Samuel Johnson
Waking each morning to birds twittering on the chimney top, a view overlooking tumbling fields of corn and farmyard animals, driving through villages full of little hamlets, thatched roofs and old fashined water pumps and spending each day playing in the hay and riding my pony. Yes, life as a child in Perthshire was idyllic.
I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting old and negative, the surroundings are too common or I'm now officially a city dweller, but my recent trip back to the shire was just tainted with stress.
I awoke at 7.30am this morning, not to the twittering birdies, but to some Polish immigrants that my parents have employed to lay a path. Why they have to start this task at that time is beyond me, and I wouldn't mind so much if a) they didn't speak in a completely gibberish language really loudly outside my bedroom window, and b) they didn't start up a pneumatic drill the minute I'm drifting off into sweet countryside sleep. When I eventually surfaced, they stared at me through the kitchen window as I made my breakfast. Then one came to the door to ask me for 'soup'. Turned out he meant soap, but I almost knocked him out.
I don't have a pony anymore. I still have a framed photo of our first cross country together. I'm wearing jodphurs that mach the colour of his saddle cloth. He looks happy and content. It hangs on my wall beside my bed. I have nightmares in which I still own said pony, and have neglected him for the last few years. In the dreams his bones are poking through, and he's half dead. Its horrifying. (N.B. I sold him to a nice family - it's just a dream.)
Sometimes, the field beside our house is occupied with sheep. They are the stupidest, most disgusting animals I've ever had the misfortune to live beside (apart from some unmentionable ex-housemates). They eat the rotten turnips in the field, then fart them out. Rotten turnip sheep fart is not a good smell.
I drove into Perth earlier today. It took about an hour to do 13 miles. I got stuck behind a grand total of two lorries, one caravan, two tractors and a combine harvester. And of course, the roads are all windy and idyllic so you can't overtake.
The murmur of rivulets, indeed.
Waking each morning to birds twittering on the chimney top, a view overlooking tumbling fields of corn and farmyard animals, driving through villages full of little hamlets, thatched roofs and old fashined water pumps and spending each day playing in the hay and riding my pony. Yes, life as a child in Perthshire was idyllic.
I'm not sure if it's because I'm getting old and negative, the surroundings are too common or I'm now officially a city dweller, but my recent trip back to the shire was just tainted with stress.
I awoke at 7.30am this morning, not to the twittering birdies, but to some Polish immigrants that my parents have employed to lay a path. Why they have to start this task at that time is beyond me, and I wouldn't mind so much if a) they didn't speak in a completely gibberish language really loudly outside my bedroom window, and b) they didn't start up a pneumatic drill the minute I'm drifting off into sweet countryside sleep. When I eventually surfaced, they stared at me through the kitchen window as I made my breakfast. Then one came to the door to ask me for 'soup'. Turned out he meant soap, but I almost knocked him out.
I don't have a pony anymore. I still have a framed photo of our first cross country together. I'm wearing jodphurs that mach the colour of his saddle cloth. He looks happy and content. It hangs on my wall beside my bed. I have nightmares in which I still own said pony, and have neglected him for the last few years. In the dreams his bones are poking through, and he's half dead. Its horrifying. (N.B. I sold him to a nice family - it's just a dream.)
Sometimes, the field beside our house is occupied with sheep. They are the stupidest, most disgusting animals I've ever had the misfortune to live beside (apart from some unmentionable ex-housemates). They eat the rotten turnips in the field, then fart them out. Rotten turnip sheep fart is not a good smell.
I drove into Perth earlier today. It took about an hour to do 13 miles. I got stuck behind a grand total of two lorries, one caravan, two tractors and a combine harvester. And of course, the roads are all windy and idyllic so you can't overtake.
The murmur of rivulets, indeed.
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