no photos please, part 2

I mangled the bagpipes.

I marched through most of the castle.

I did it in a kilt.

I did it sans pants.


Not all of the castle is heated. When we got up to the old tower, I could see my breath in the air, and I can only think that people who wore kilts in winter on a regular basis were made of heartier stock than me. [Than I.] (...Thank you, Mycroft.) In addition to my breath, I could see a distinct lack of mortar between the stones in the walls, which is either a testament to old school building skills or a sign that the whole thing is coming down in the next stiff wind.

There's a spiral stair case that goes up to the very top. I went first, then the boys, then Deb. She was carrying the torch, and by torch I do not mean electric torch. I mean an actual medieval torch with fire on the end and flickering shadows on the walls and the smell of something vaguely unpleasant burning.

The steps were shallow and broad at the beginning and got steeper and more squashed together by the top, like someone hadn't planned very well. The walls seemed to lean in. At the top, we emerged out into a starry, frigidly clear night with only a two foot high barrier and a lot of chilly air between us and the ground, invisible far below in the dark.

I've generally got no problem with heights, but I kept picturing landing at the bottom with my kilt up round my waist. It was not an image that contributed greatly to my bagpipe-playing skills, let me tell you.

"Round the top three times, and then we're done," Deb said.

"Make that sound like an angry monkey again," Sherlock suggested.

Mycroft put his fingers in his ears.

I'm afraid I did make that sound like an angry monkey again, more than once. A refrain of Angry Monkey in C Major rang out from the top of the tower and chilled the souls of sleepers for miles around, or at least irritated them severely. I hope no one complains to the police.

And then we had dinner. I'll tell you about the ghost tomorrow.