The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2114 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

As we assembled in the courtyard, Cindy and Danni were last down, Danni wearing a very short skirt over leggings. The first job was to anoint everyone with insect repellent, and if the insects find it as repellent as I do, we should be fairly safe.

Simon then outlined the route we’d take, which was essentially a traipse round the estate, avoiding the grouse moors and their murderous occupants. No matter how much I objected to killing for fun, he reminded me that without the shooting, there’d be no moors and possibly no estate. While it didn’t overly concern me, I was aware that the land had been in the family’s possession for over three hundred years and it survived war, pestilence and famine. It had cleverly stayed aloof from the Jacobite troubles and therefore from the post Culloden reprisals carried out by Butcher Cumberland, as the Duke of Cumberland was known locally.

The weather looked a bit uncertain, so I checked everyone had a waterproof, their lunch and a drink–preferably water. Finally I slipped on my binoculars and pulled on my ruckie–it was some time since I’d walked any distance carrying one. On Simon’s command, we all set off at a gentle pace out into the great grey yonder.

Trish was good company, taking photos of anything I couldn’t identify–which was plenty–and asking why I didn’t know. I was able to point out at least two types of heather and gorse–bell heather and cross-leaved, so that gave me some credibility.

I tried to explain how the acid soil stopped the breakdown of organic material and formed peat, and that occasionally it caught fire and could burn for months or even years. I reported to wide eyes that a fire on a mountain in South Wales, which incidentally bore the southernmost population of red grouse, had burned for years despite the efforts of local fire fighters and that in the end they brought in bulldozers and buried it, the idea being to exclude the air and stop the fire. Last heard it was still smouldering underground and had been for twenty years or more.

As we walked Simon said quietly, “That’s an urban myth, isn’t it?”

“Ah no, Si, I’ve actually been up the mountain which rejoices in the name of the Blorenge.” So there won’t be too many poems written about it.

“Go on, you made that up,” my unbelieving hubby suggested.

“Indeed I didn’t, in fact there’s a famous horse’s grave up there as well.”

“Go on, don’t tell me it’s the real resting place of Bucephalus?”

“Very funny, no, it was Col. Harry Llewellyn’s show jumper called Fox hunter.”

“And what’s so special about this horse?”

“He was part of an equestrian team which won GB’s only gold medal in 1952 in the Olympics.”

“No wonder I’ve never heard of it then.”

“But if you’d been an equestrian, you would have done,” I argued.

“Possibly, so what were you doing up there, looking for dead ’orses?”

“No, I was actually on a school biology field trip looking for signs of red grouse.”

“What like notices saying, ‘Yer be red grouse?’”

“Yeah that sort of thing but in their poo.”

“What?”

“Red grouse have a particular sort of poo.”

“Now I know you’re bull shitting me.”

“I’m not.”

“Bird shit is bird shit, is bird shit.”

“Sorry to disagree, Si, but you’re wrong.”

Just then we were passed by a Land rover which stopped and the window was wound down. “Laird Simon, Lady Cameron,” said a respectful voice.

“Morning, McVitie, how are the birds doing?” replied Simon.

“Aye, they’re doing fine, twa hundred since Monday.” My tummy flipped, even Kiki couldn’t eat two hundred grouse.

“Could you settle a slight disagreement, McVitie?”

“Aye, if I can.”

“Are grouse droppings individual–I mean are they same as other bird droppings?” Simon looked at me and smiled assured his man would back him.

“Only wi’ other grouse, m’ laird.”

“So my wife could say she knew grouse were about by finding some droppings?”

“Aye, if she ken whit she wis lookin’ fa’.”

“Thank you, Mr McVitie,” I beamed towards the estate keeper.

“Yer welcome, ma’am.” With that he drove off to continue his slaughter of the innocents.

“Traitor,” Simon mouthed at the disappearing 4x4.

“You should know better than argue with Mummy about wildlife,” offered Livvie who smirked at Simon.

“We’ll show you in the book when we get back,” promised Trish.

“Can’t wait,” humphed Simon, ever the bad loser.

We continued our trek, the path rising to some hills. “What’s up there, Daddy?” asked Trish.

“Not a lot, the occasional bird nest and a couple of caves, I think.”

“Caves?” squealed Danni and Trish, “Can we see them?”

“I suppose we could have lunch up there, it is nearly twelve. You okay with that, Cathy?”

“Fine with me.”

So it came to pass that the family Cameron had their lunch sitting on a few rocks inside some sandstone caves. Despite being dressed as a girl, Danny rushed into the caves yelling and listening to the echoes he got back, which seemed more reminiscent of boy behaviour. It made my toes curl and pleased me at the same time.

I saw some flashes as they took photos and then shouts of, “Don’t go in there.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“No you won’t, Trish–Trish where are you? Mummy, we’ve lost Trish.”

I walked rapidly into the cave closely followed by Simon. “What d’you mean you’ve lost Trish?”

“She went through there,” Danni pointed to a fissure in the wall of the smaller cave.

“Through here?” I examined the crack in the wall–there was no way anyone my size would get through it. I called through the hole but there was no reply which may or may not be serious.

I yelled again and this time more insistently. No response, I began to get a little worried. Simon shone his torch through the hole and it was obvious that Trish wasn’t there–but where was she?

“Want me to go look for her?” Danni offered sounding more like a brother than a sister.

“I don’t know, we don’t need to lose two of you.”

“Yes, go on girl, here take my torch.” Simon wasn’t going to equivocate.

“Stupid tits,” hissed Danni, hurling his chest adornments on the cave floor as he squeezed through the crack which was barely bigger than he was.

“I’m coming too,” Cindy Squeezed in after him and being smaller did so before I could stop her.

“Bring her back here,” I shouted to Danni.

“No good, it’s narrower from this side, we’ll have to find a way round.” Then they seemed to fade into the gloom.

Livvie handed me Danni’s boobs and I shoved them in my backpack.

“Any idea where that goes?” I asked Simon.

“None whatsoever, I didn’t even know it was there.”

Some help he was–as usual. Typical isn’t it, you can never find a good speleologist when you want one?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blorenge