It was a cold and ordinary mid-February weekend that marked the end of a week of auditing, of Teams calls, of early meetings and project deadlines. In other words, no different from any other weekend. But for us, it held some sentimental value. Marking a year since our first date and my very first Valentine’s with someone, we thought it would be fun to escape our city working lives and get out for some good old-fashioned countryside fresh air. More importantly, I hadn’t been up a hill in months and was definitely suffering from withdrawal symptoms. We settled on a converted railway wagon as our affordable but cosy accommodation, and set off on the 90-minute drive just after work on a Friday afternoon, firmly labelling this our ‘holiday’ as we battled through rain. Sorry James, not quite a Venice or Paris weekend getaway.
As we got closer, the signal dipped in and out and our mutual agreement to ditch social media for the weekend no longer appeared to be our decision. The temperature on the car dashboard dropped to a solid 2 degrees as I kept refreshing the Airbnb description: “this definitely has heating, right?” Deciding that the picture of the fireplace could not possibly depict the only source of warmth, we turned left into a huge country estate optimistic that we would soon be in the warmth of the wagon. We snaked along roads most definitely not built for a Skoda, wincing every time the car climbed over the largest speed bumps we’d ever seen. After seriously doubting my navigational skills, we spotted the outline of blue fairy lights through the trees and crawled into a muddy drive. The wagon looked perfect.
We stepped inside and my hopes of heating quickly diminished. It was freezing. As James brought in the bags, I scrambled through the visitor notes scanning for instructions. All I could find were notes for the fire… I asked James to set up the stove as I read these notes out, not realising that instructions were getting lost in translation. Once I set up the fire starters and kindling, the smoke blitzed back into the wagon with James frantically fanning the smoke alarm with a tea towel (a familiar sight from my previous attempts at cooking). Him panicking about the smoke, me panicking about the lack of warmth, we agreed to admit defeat if it didn’t improve within 5 minutes. Thankfully, it was at this point that I noticed he hadn’t opened the flute for the smoke to escape up the chimney and, well, not to be melodramatic, but the day was saved. Amazing what warmth can do to your morale! A comforting bowl of pasta and half a bottle of prosecco and I was sound asleep, listening to wind and rain instead of cars and students shouting.
Both of us slept in the next morning, eventually opening our eyes and grimacing at the grey skies and wind outside. While the view was stunning, the weather was less than helpful in getting us up. Fuelled on fresh bread, homemade granola and eggs from next door, we coated ourselves in thermal layers and hopped in the car, ready for our great outdoor adventure. A quick stop in the village for coffee and to pick up lunch – two thick sausage rolls – we drove on to Pitlochry to start our walk.
After becoming lost in the first 5 minutes – I might have lied about my map skills – we eventually found the right path, crossed the bridge and then headed up. And up. And up. I always forget this part of walking up hills. My morale kept high by jelly beans, James’ by I have no idea, we plodded on with me stopping at least every 10 minutes because “I promise this view looks so different so I have to take another photo!” We entered into the hobbit-like forest, amazed at small clumps of snow settled on the edges of the path, continually winding up as we caught glimpses of snowy hills in the distance. The view was exactly like the Pitlochry postcards, something I will never get used to. As the paths became more winding and less defined, we lost our way and James was far from impressed as I insisted the correct way included climbing three fallen trees, a fence and ignoring the “Do not enter” sign pinned firmly to a rather secure-looking gate.
We found a path again and meandered (still going up) along a track until the forest stopped and suddenly we were thrust into open moor and heather, still encompassed by those white peaks in the distance. Me, giggling, as I sent James in search of a “pictish path” because that’s the only description I had, I traipsed behind with my camera clicking away to mask my rests. James found a view point so we climbed to the top of yet another hills, agreeing that it was worth it for the incomparable lunch spot. I still maintain that nothing tastes better than lunch when you are wet, cold and hungry on top of a hill. We gazed out, munching on our sausage rolls and sipping Scottish whisky, before pulling hoods down and eventually heading back down.
Energy levels helped perhaps more by the whisky than the sausage roll, we sped back down the soggy tracks, retracing our steps back to the car before hopping in and turning seat heaters to full. Once back at the wagon, my top priority was starting the fire before standing in the dribbling shower and putting on warm clothes. A taxi picked us up and, looking significantly more scrubbed up than an hour before, we headed out for dinner at The Taybank.
Eyes bigger than my stomach, I scanned the menu with a well-deserved glass of Malbec and proudly told James that I absolutely was going to manage three courses. Jeans increasingly tight with each course, I devoured pheasant rillette, duck and winter vegetables and finally the sticky toffee pudding, each washed down by a fresh glass of wine (still deserved, right?). We relished the lazy pace of dinner before rolling back into a taxi, hoping wine would work just as well as the fire in providing warmth.
The next morning it was pouring. As many times as Mamma has told me the infamous Scandinavian saying: “no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing”, I disagree. We packed up the wagon, headed back into the village for breakfast and a sausage roll from a different bakery this time (told you we were adventurous), and then scouted out a shorter and more local walk. We marched through the rain in full waterproofs – which turned out to be not all that waterproof – before retreating back into the car and once again seeking comfort in a fat sausage roll. Then back on the road for a lazy afternoon in front of the rugby!
Overall, the weekend was a haven from work deadlines and army training, a much-desired break from the buzz of the city. The simplicity of a wet walk, good pub grub and a warm bed can never be over-rated and is the perfect tonic to a life in front of the computer. Would definitely recommend!
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