The Andeonaig sings to my fucking soul. I’m in my own cottage, sitting on the patio with a cigar, listening to a small river run by. The room/cottage is nothing short of perfect … except for the lack of an internet connection (I’m posting after having written yesterday). So, for now, I’m reconnecting with my fountain pen, still my favorite way to write.
It’s dark out, so I only have interior shots of my cottage. I’ll get some material on the exterior and the main building in the morning.
So, aside from tonight’s digs, there hasn’t been a whole lot of excitement. We spent the morning at an interesting farm/retailer/café, discussing issues such as organic, sustainability and locally sourced produce (read more about it here [link]). For the afternoon, we dashed over to a Scottish safari place, where we were taken through the hills to spot wildlife and enjoy the scenery of the countryside. Yes, you probably know how the Migrant Blogger feels about being out in the sticks, but I did have a good time.
Being in a van all day was fucking murder. I don’t spend much time in cars any more, and I start to feel a bit lightheaded if I’m in the back seat to Newark or JFK. Several hours today did take its toll on me. I guess part of the problem is that I feel confined. When you’re in a vehicle, you lose an element of control. Out on the street, it’s just me and my feet. Period.
For now, I’ve got it made. There’s a slight chill in the air. I’m out on the patio with a De La Concha Grand Reserve, toro-sized. It’s peaceful. I couldn’t live like this, but the Andeonaig is a great place for a writing retreat. If I ever get a book deal and have to disappear for a week or two to make shit happen, this is probably where I’ll do it.