Diary: July 23

Continued 3/3.

2nd

Today we travelled to the second grass keep. Charlie penned all but one ewe, then sheared five ewes by hand. We had been waiting with some degree of patience for all the flock to enter the pen for feeding, today all but one came, so Charlie decided to close them in. The two tups were the last to come into the pen.

We quickly loaded them into the trailer to be returned to the farmhouse paddock. In the evening, Charlie diluted some Resolva concentrate weedkiller for me to spray onto our pandemic of dock leaves. I sprayed fifteen litres of this weedkiller to cover over most of them.

1st

Charlie wanted to shear sheep today, but noticing the changing weather I pushed for a drive instead; our west coast destination, Largs. From the Borthwick Valley we drove through Ashkirk, passing thought Selkirk, towards Peebles through the beautiful Yair Valley. We stopped to refuel at a café in Innerleithen, it reminded me of how I used to be, before I became terror programmed with psychological phobias.

The theme of the café, must have triggered me into a panic attack because I misplaced my bank card more or less instantaneously on arrival, after leaving the café, searching the entire car, I emptied my handbag onto the table, surrounded by onlookers, I discovered my bank card in a small zipped pocket. A latte and a breakfast burrito soothed embarrassment, but paranoia lingered through thickening dissociative mist.

Cross over the River Tweed we drove by Traquair House, through Cardona and into Peebles. Charlie wanted to buy me a colourful dress, as I only have black dresses now; but on entering Fat Face, I found and purchased a discounted black leather handbag. We searched the high-street but only found nice patterns printed on cheap nylon material. Driving past Neidpath Castle we arrived in Biggar at 2pm, side tracked from a café we entered the town's museum.

Initially the museums' reception was informative, coherent and receptive; until a stigmatising "follower" came in the building and engaged, only minutes after we had begun our tour; from then on we appeared to be invisible. The museum staff refused to engage in conversation; unresponsive, as if I did not exist within the locality. This is a frequent discordance, from stigmatising inductions, that has seen me ostracised via being socially shunned, for years.

The museum was fascinating, inside there was a model of a palace that never existed, the architect's aspirations far exceeding financial budget. There were models of hill forts, tower houses, before we entered rooms, that had been turned into timeless shops. We found some of the antiques presented within these rooms were also present in the farmhouse. I felt spook by presence here but enjoyed the experience, because, life moves on regardless, for everybody.

Leaving the museum we entered the café to purchase a takeaway coffee, the animosity was incredible; considering we'd never visited this establishment before; we don't even live in the area, so where does the impression come from? We all know, but there seems to be a mental block in acknowledging it. As we connected with the M74, side lining Glasgow towards the West Coast, I reluctantly supped my coffee into a twisted stomach; rung out from the sense of self.

After sixty miles drive we reached the North Ayrshire west coast; the reflective light from the sea here is cleansing, and the airy breeze fresh. We passed Hunterston B powerstation, and journeyed along a coastline road through Fairlie; I remembered walking this length some months ago. Arriving in Largs we parked our car, Charlie sidelined towards a Costa cafe, desperate to use a toilet. Waiting I took some pictures of the ferry leaving for Millport island.

I felt edgy against public walking about Largs, we searched for a place to eat, settling for a busy Belhaven pub named the "Droughty Neebors". There were no seats at the front of the pub, we seated at the rear, and ordered fish and chips. The food was of good quality, staff were rushed but coherent, an obnoxious drunken woman disrupted the functioning of the pub, as an inebriated monster singing and shouting through the rear door and then on from the garden.

Leaving Largs, exiting the car park we noticed the pay machine had broken down, this took the registration plates of veichles and was supposed to bill drivers on exiting the car park. We decided to drive south, along the coastline untill the road turned towards Kilmarnock. We drove into Saltcoats, passing the golf course where an isolated hapless birthday ended, inside a tent last year.

Noticing an Aldi and Iceland I requested Charlie (unnerved by the "car over the harbour edge" warning signs) to stop the car enabling me to take a picture of the sea from along the harbour wall.

Leaving, we passed by a solitary Ned who had pulled up against the harbour wall in a tiny car. We drove to new Cumnock, as a bus stopped picked up an elderly male hitch-hiker, then dropped him off in Sanquhar. I remembered this town, not just from a visit to the museum here, but from being dropped off and propositioned for acts of fellatio from a railway worker who had given me a lift.

We stopped in Thornhill, Charlie returned from the shop with ice cream and coffee. We drove to Dumfries, then to Lockerbie, Charlie took the road to Langholm, but reversed when I found a quicker way to Borthwick valley through Eskdalemuir forest. We stopped at the Tushilaw Inn, I had told the barman yesterday evening that we'd be returning today. A man standing outside, sighting us, told his female friend to hush before turning to enter the pub.

We sensed revulsion from a geordie family at a table and two men seated at the bar, as we ordered a pint of beer. I strongly ordered bottled larger [Tennants] as the house draft larger had curdled my stomach to projectile vomit one night about a week ago. The Tushilaw Inn is a twisted, malcontented evil, if the filthy walls could speak, how truly horrified could we, and others unfortunate as us, be. But we become who we are in this world, without beligerent influencers.

We'll not be returning there; at least in this life, and hopefully not even be in sight of this establishment in the next life. Fifteen miles from the farmhouse, we could have hardly called this dire establishment our local pub, being far too obscene and run by degenerate cretins. It felt good to close the farmhouse gate on our journey, and shut the door and close the curtains on a day. We'd spent too much time on travelling.