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September 8, 2005

I won’t say our morning in Glencoe dawned bright, but it didn’t dawn rainy either. That came later, but in the meantime, we did get a touch of sun. Or, at least, the tops of the mountains did.

First, we continued our walk up the road past the hostel to a spot where our country lane would have run into the highway if the river hadn’t been in the way. Here you can see the rain headed our way. The highway is on the left but you can’t see it.
The rain was still pouring off the mountains from last night. As it started again, we nipped into a hotel and pub that just happened to be out in the middle of this fairyland nowhere. We were thinking of lunch since we hadn’t had any breakfast, but they didn’t open till 11, so we sat until we saw a wee break in the weather, then made a run for it.

This fisherman wasn’t the least bit daunted by the wet, and neither were his dogs.
'Twas about this time I wished my mushrooming skills were greater, I think these would have been mighty tasty, but . . .
We were really excited to see blackberries, just as black and fat and shiny as any in California or Oregon, and just as pretty as a picture. But the taste! Yuck! None at all! Mighty sad!
Just as you enter Glencoe village, or leave it, depending which way you’re traveling, there is a bridge.
Just before the bridge on the downhill side, is a path that goes to the monument commemorating the Massacre. I won’t go into the details, but quickly quote the monument’s plaque:

"On the morning of 13 February, 1692, thirty-eight MacDonalds of Glencoe were massacred in this area on the orders of King William III and carried out by government forces led by Robert Campbell of Glenlyon."

I’ll put a link in later, but for now, Google will surely have more than you want to know.

The village was cute as a bug’s ear, to quote my old sainted Pappy, who was, I believe, quoting his Gram Tiffy. We would have liked to stay longer, but by the time we strolled from the top end down, looked back at the rain chasing us, and popped into a place for a bit to eat, it was time to catch the bus. There was much more to see, not just of the wee town, but of a huge glen that we couldn’t see from the village, but that’s another story . . .
Not much later, we were at the Loch Ness Hostel, seeing a tiny bit of sun, but not much of Nessie, but I am a believer. I think there's something in that lake.
We had to satisfy ourselves with a warm fire and some hot jazz from a cool hound dog.