Pepys: the Covid Diaries (2020- )

2 October, in the year of our Lord 2021

Nothing yet come too badly of the lack of fodder for the horses, so up, and by coach to visit my mother and father, who were at home and in fine spirits, and shew them all the little sketches and pictures I made of my time in Morrer, my father much joyed at the sight of them, and most of all my sketches of the little cottage, for it did break his heart to sell it; but much contented at the sight of it so unchanged, more I think than I ever saw him contented for any thing. The mother of Mrs. Macduff hath sent him a pretty card for the strong water that he sent to her.
  After supper, home, and the realisacion that Mr. Jones’ little card is not as magick as I did think, for by the Messenger from him that he hath done the Reckoning for our holiday and that I am indebted to him the sum of 14l 8s. 9d, this being for fodder pertaneing to the travel by coach, seven suppers, sundry sandwichs and Victuals, incl. a stop off at Burgher king on the way home. And so to bed.

22-23 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Rose, and finding our land lady gone out for the day, it seeming that she is a care Worker, early about her charges (which did further embarress me for my suspition of her), payed the reckoning by a bank Transfer, 65l 7s. 6d. So set out, though the news of the day is that there is a shortidge of fodder for the horses throughout the land. Decided upon a way that did not take us by Loch Lomond, and it mighty good, with no hold ups, so by Styrling at midday, where a great castle upon a hill. And by the Messenger along the way, from Mrs. Macduff, ‘Maybe don’t leave it so long next time?’, which joyed me greatly, to have been in the presence of such fine people, and filled with merry remenescince of such a care free day. Thence by roads less familiar, purposing to return to the city by the north east of England.
  In the journys course my mind turned to ponder upon the prefix ‘e-’, for I heard of e-commerce and of e-Learning, and now Mr. Macbeth hath his e-byke, and it seems now all is an ‘e-something’. But I did retreat from asking Mr. Jones his opinion lest he procure his answer from his favourite Book of Dad Jokes, for we had by then entered Yorkshire. 

 

24 September, in the year of our Lord 2020

Today we did end our journy, and in the evening home, where all well and to my great content; and Banjo did greet me by his jumping upon the table and demanding a great scratching of his ears, and all a-purr. Only that towards home we did see many in their coaches, in great tails all at a stand-still outside ev’ry Purveyer of fodder in the city, there being so few coach men for the deliverie of fodder since we left the Continent that all are stocking up on it, though the First Lord of the Treasurie hath offered a Contrackt to all the coachmen, from Bulgarya to the Doutch, that he will condiscend to let them work here till Christmas day, at which they scoff and stick a finger up at him. Mighty glad to find ourselfs home and without any need of travel, for a few days. In the evening I wrote a letter to Mrs. Macbeth, in gratitude for her Hospitalitty, and sent it as a e-pistle.

21 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up, but the night disturbed by noyses in the hall outside our door, as if a person wandering therein, all a-mutter in their confucion, so that in the dark I did hiss to Mr. Jones, ‘Hath our door been lock’d?’ and he did say, ‘Yes,’ but I up to make sure it was, which it was, and then to bed again, but slept poorly. At our breakfast pick up, dared speak upon it to Mrs. Macbeth, and she says, ‘Oh, I am sorry. That would be Banquo. He stalks the house at night.’
  ‘Banquo?’
  ‘He will have brought in a wee mouse — ’ (and on kew appears a pretty white cat, who mews sweetly) ‘ — won’t you? Do ye want some cat milk, eh, wee man? Come on, then,’ says she. And then looks at me, I suspeckt wickedly but cannot tell if my mind plays a trick upon me. ‘The milk of human kindnesse, eh?’
  And so they to the kitchen while I hasten to our room with our food, but remayne silent upon our discourse for I fear Mr. Jones hath formed an Opinion that I am become parannoyed.
  It being a day of fine drizzle and mist, with no breeze, the midgies are abroad and we start to scratch even as we set out, determining to see a great Fort upon the coast, though it an hour, or more, I think, by coach.
  ‘I feel as if I am eat alive!’ say I, rubbing my face and ears. ‘The damn’d things are in the coach! Is there no remedie?’
  Whereupon Mr. Jones brightens and we stop.
  ‘I forgot, since we have been so little troubled, but we must apply this to our exposed areas,’ says he, and removes the lid from a small bottle of light glass, within which an oily water, and on it a label proclayming it to be Skin So Soft by Avon. ‘It is my favoured preventitive and not known to fail!’
  And so for some minutes we sit and rub it in, and smell fresh but scented, a little too much I think, but pray that it will work. Then on by small roads, with room only for a single coach, only with little bays all along the road where we must pause for another coach, which comes towards us, to pass, which I think a fine idea, and so weave our way to the ruin of a stone castle, stood upon on small island, all watery around but with a sandy tidle causeway, and with a fine aspect, though we could not go in it for there was a wooden gate with a pad Lock.
  ‘It is the ancient fortress of the MacDonalds,’ say I, for I have read up on it, ‘and called Castle Tioram, which is heard as Chirrum in the language of the Gael. Is there any more of that midgie stuff?’
  Walked a while on a small path up a pretty inlet, meeting only two or three, it pleasant though the sky become grey; and then a little farther by coach, and eat a fine salmagundi outside at a small Caff, 2s. 3d. After, set out for the westerliest point on the island of Great Bretayne, but betrayed again by the weather, which comes very poor for a while, so turn homeweards.
  But before home we can divert, the storm clouds cleared by late in the afternoon (the weather being so unpredicktable here), to walk upon the beaches for the last time, it being our last day, and admire the fine views of islands, all sun-lighted, and the tide lapping at our feet as it ebbs.
  ‘The sand here is of an uncommon whitenesse owing to its extraordinary make up,’ explayne I to Mr. Jones, as we stroll, ‘which is of uncountable tiny white seashells, buffetted over a thousand years on the rocks to a fine dust. Doth it not amaze you to think of it?’
  ‘That is a fine and romantick notion,’ says Mr. Jones. ‘But I think it owes its character to another source. Follow me.’
  Whereupon he leads me across a grassy headland, and we find ourselfs upon a beach frequented by none other, and the purest white sand of them all, with not a foot print upon it, only the remains of a wrecked ship lying in the shallow sea.
  ‘Look,’ says he. ‘Here. And there.’
  And I look where he points and my mouth drys. For what I perceived as little imperfecktions in the sand are not. Here is the vault of skull, there the end of femur, and over there the remaynes of a rib cage, all scoured by the sea and bleached by the sun, to make of them this unnatural pearly strand.
  ‘All these are — ?’
  ‘They do not call it the Midge Coast for nothing,’ says Mr. Jones, grimly. ‘These are the remaynes of those who were eat alive. These bones are the source of your Silver Sands.’
  ‘And all this before Skin So Soft by Avon,’ murmur I, in awe.
  To our lodgeings as night falls, where we unpack our coach for the final time, the yellow coach still upon the gravel and not moved, and I find against my Will my mind now all preoccupyed anew by thoughts of Death, and pace back and forth in our room, Mr. Jones’ eyes upon me as if watching a tennis match.
  ‘Be still, Pepys! We have had a fine last day and a table in a tavern awaits.’
  ‘But I am prey to a gnawing concern,’ say I, all furrowed of brow and biting a nuckle.
  ‘You have been gnawed by preying concerns since the day we arrived. You have done that which you came here to do. You have walked upon the beaches. You have been to the isles. You have seen the old cottage. And you have met the Macduffs.’
  ‘Of course!’ cry I aghast. ‘It is all become clear! Do you not see? The dysappearance of Duncan! The absence of Macbeth! The Macduffs are in mortal danger! I must warn them forthwith!’
  And with that I grab my Carrymore coat and run from the room while Mr. Jones flounders behind me.
  On the gravel I wonder which way to turn, and head up behind the inn to the road. I think to run down to the Macduffs, but next door to Railway Cottage there is a light on in their old house, which I thought derrelict. There is no moon and I have no lamp. I am confused and know not which way to turn so end up rotating three hundred and fifty degrees. Ten degrees short of an entyre cyrcumfirence comes a great yowl and out from the shadows beside the road springs a white apparicion! All at once there is a scream, a shout, a high pitched screech and a banshee wail.
  ‘Aaa-a-a-argh!’ scream I, for I have never seen a ghost before!
  ‘What the f— ?’ comes an angry cry!
  Eeeeeee-e-e-ek! comes the screech of emergincie braking!
  ‘Ya-a-h! De-addy-addy-addy — !’ comes the simultaneose banshee wail.
  The world spins around me as I flail in my purpose.
  ‘Banquo!’ cries the voice of a ciclist.
  ‘What?’ cry I.
  ‘A hundred yards from home and the bloody cat tries to get me killed!’ cries the voice.
  There is the noyse of a dismounting in the dark, and a grumpy scrabbling around on the road. The banshee wail gets closer and is accompanied by a wobbly point of light. It is the mother of next door neighbours staggering from her old house. She clutches in her hand an empty bottle of Famose Grouse and is singing her head off. Her lamp illuminates a man emerging from the Thaie take away, the entire Macduff family marching up the hill and the bicicle on the road, where the ciclist gathers up his strewn belongings.
  My head swyvels from side to side as I strive, dysorientated in the dark, to see who amongst this assembly might be who.
  ‘Duncan!’ gasp I, and the man with the takeaway stops in surprise. ‘I thought you were —  ’
  ‘Was what?’ He is baffled. ‘The guy who owns the pub in Inverie’s leavin’, so we had a wee bit of a night last week and I thought I’d sleep it off thair. I got the last boat back just now.’
  I spin bewildered to face the assembled Macduffs.
  ‘I was coming to warn you!’ pant I. ‘Your lifes are in — danger.’ But I peter out.
  ‘I’d be very surprised about that,’ says Mrs. Macduff, perplexed. ‘We’ve just come up tae take my Mum home. She does this every week.’
  At which point her mother begins an inebriated rendicion of Donald Where’s Yer Troosers and has to be manhandled down the road. To the diminishing bellow of ‘Ah’ve juss come down…from the ISLE OF SKYE…’ I turn in desperacion to the ciclist.
  ‘And you?’ ask I, astonished.
  ‘Iain Macbeth,’ says he, grumpily replacing his spilled possessions in his cicle basket.
  ‘Ah!’ gabble I. ‘We are staying with your — ! But I supposed you upon an errand of dark purpose — !’
  ‘Dark purpose? I went on my new e-byke tae Glasge to pick up all this stuff from the Polis,’ says he.
  ‘All this stuff?’ say I weakly, for before me I see no dagger, nor poison, nor any instrument of murder. It seems in fact to consist mainly of books.
  ‘Aye, as soon we could, what with the Covey an’ everything, me and the wife were off for a wee break abroad, but we got set upon by ruffians around Loch Lomond.’
  ‘And the brigands took all your valuables, and only now have they been recovered?’
  ‘Aye. Well, not quite. It’s really weird. They seemed more interested in the books. They even wrote in the bloody things. Look at this.’ Whereupon rummages he in his cicle baskitt and opens up a book. ‘“5/10” it says, “…weak female characterisacion”, and in this one, “3/10 — ending very contryved”.’
  ‘Did you get them all back?’
  ‘Not all. They never recovered the Amsterdam Ferry Timetable or my wife’s bound copy of The Age of Innocence.’ He rights himselfe upon his bicycle, his feet upon the peddles. ‘I’m more of a Dean Koontz man myself. He’s no Walter Scott but “1/10, implausible drivel” was a bit harsh.’
  He off in the direction of our lodgeings, Mr. Jones draws up in his coach to reskew me.
  ‘I have been foolish, have I not?’ say I, despondantly.
  ‘A little,’ says Mr. Jones, whose sanguin outlook I admyre, ‘to let your fancy run away with you so. But they know you are English, so they will make allowances. Now, we must put all thought of Shakespearian tragedie behind us. A pint of wine and a fish stew await us in a warm tavern…where a fire burns and a cauldron — ’
  ‘Very funny.’
  ‘Lighten up.’

20 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up, and after breakfast I about the little business I had in mind when I did think to come here. For a short walk away, on the road and facing the inn, is the little cottage that was my parents, which they had for more than 20 years, and which they come to live in at times, during the year, though it a very long journy from their bigger house. Only they did sell it fourteen years since, as my father tells me, and have not seen it since, and I for longer still. And I feel a quickening of my heart as I approach it, and a thought comes into my mind that perhaps it were better to keep it all trapped in the past and to turn, and satisfy myselfe with just a backward glance. But then I think this to be the foyble of a younger selfe, for this is the very thing I came to do, and so push open the paynted gate and knock upon the front door, which is ajar, and the sun up upon it, and pretty flowers in boxes on the windowsills outside. And comes a mans voice, ‘Go round the back!’ which brings a smile to my face, for my parents always used the back door too. And then hurrys the woman of the house around the corner to my right, for she hath heard me, and she smiles and asks me if I am who I am, and I say, ‘Yes, I am he,’ and she leads me to the back garden.
  And I look around, and recognise all the entirety of it. The old caravan hath gone, in which my father stored his peat to dry, and in its place a fine wooden shed, given over to an Office, and the shrubs are neat, and the grass cut.
  ‘Would you like to come in?’ says she. ‘You must excuse the mess. We just got back from Dunedin last night.’
  And so I do, humbled by the kindness of her; and there to my left is the little kitchen, with its sink and its stove, and before me the little hallway where we did hang our wet coats, and the step up into the living room, with its hearth unchanged and its cupboards just so; for they have changed nothing, save only it is their own tables, and chairs, and books, and all the trappings of the everyday, and all lived in and with a homely warmth. And I recount all this in the manner of, ‘There is the little oven by the hearth that never really worked, and there the cupboard where we aired the sheets,’ and by and by are joyned by the husband, who is a little stooped with age but hath a twinkle in his eye. And we exchange some discourse as to the plans they had, for a new room in the roof, and this, and that, but none come to pass, as is the nature of many plans. And of how once came to visit the son of the man who owned the place even before my mother and father, who still saw his father’s hand in some carpentery here, and some plaster work there; and outside was even the little wooden shed for coal that his father built and mine inherited, and it is still there, only a tiny bit rotten at the base, just as I remembered it.
  It was forty years ago that I first set eyes upon this little house, and twenty-five since I last set eyes upon it. I had expected tears, but there were none, for wonderment expunged them, so little was it touched by the passage of time. And after a while I made my thanks and quietly left, only making a couple of sketches of its walls from the road to show my mother and father, and of the little plate with its paynted name. Railway Cottage.
  After, we walked along the stony path that winds along the lake nearby, which the locals call Loch Morrar, only it become wet, which again was not foretold, and we come home. And after supper I set to write my Journall for the day, and find it a curious thing, that now I write the words is when the tears come. 

19 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up, and thanks be to God, unharmed, and after some cheese, quoissants and a little preserve that was left on a tray for us, our hostesse not to be seen, today take the boat from the port of Mallague to Sky Isle, which was 40 minutes and many coaches upon it, only the weather not as we had hoped, it being very rainy, and not at all as the prediction hath it when we booked the boat, which was for there to be much sun shine, and why we did think to go today. Land at some minutes past 10 a-clock, whence a long journy, which was over an hour, I think, to some black mountains, very dark and of a threatening aspect, there to walk along a path Mr. Jones had walked before, though twenty years since, which he did know for a fact for he catalogged it in a great note book. But it all changed, which I think made him a little sad, with many brown signs proclameing the road to ‘The Faërie Pools’, which attract a great many there, more than for the trayn at the vyaduct, and a great park for all the coaches, which was not there when Mr. Jones come last. And the walk up a long vally, and over many streams, all awash and the water over our boots with the nights rain, though I with my Carrymore coat against the rain, and my feet dry in my Scarper boots, the best I ever bought. But Lord! the flimsy shoes we saw the people walk in! — dayntie flats, and boat shoes, though they must risk torrents and a path all uneven with rocks, and with much mud between them. But all around the scenery very wild, with much water in cascades, and a grey cloud that moved around the tops, and a drizzle so we could not see where the river run to the sea.
  Mr. Jones did teach me today the meaning of a new word, which is the Verb ‘to contour’, and used it in a sentence that proveth his understanding of it — viz. ‘We shall aim for there — ’ (he points to where the stream emergeth from the mountain) ‘ — and from there bear left, on to that track there — ’ (he points again) ‘ — which contours around the head of the vally to that pass there — ’ (again he points) ‘ — and from there we shall return down that track by those trees — there. Three hours, max.’
  ‘Very well,’ say I, though I harbour a reservacion, for the length of the walk yesterday upon Egg Island hath tired my lower limbs and I have a discomfort on one thigh.
  By and by we reach the foot of mountains and our chosen route, which we follow for a little way, and leave all others behind, which were only a few of them that had walked all up the torrent. Only I sense it to be more tiring than I thought.
  ‘So, when you said “contour around”,’ whinge I, ‘I did take it to be a flat path, one that followeth the topographickle features pertaining to a single line on a map joining points of equal height above or below sea level. We are going consistently upwards.’
  ‘Perhaps we should rest here upon these handy boulders and have some lunch?’ says Mr.Jones, brightly and, I think, to mollefy me (but efasively avoiding the question, which I note). He fisheth within his nap sack for our victuals, and I within the depths of a pocket, to extract what is rubbing against my thigh.
  ‘Would you like some crisps?’ says he. ‘Flame-grilled lark or cheese and onion.’
  ‘I will swap you for a pork scratching,’ say I, gallantly.
  Anon, and we top our highest point, which marketh a pass across a saddle betwixt the hills, and the clouds part and afford fine views, and I am heartened at least to see two who chose a different path below us, mired in a quagmyre of mud and marsh but gamely struggling on, he in a bright blue tunic and she in neon pink. And now contented, for now it was all down the hill, on a good path, with many rocks for good footing, though we could not pass the torrent at its end, so we must cross by the way we come.
  Thence by coach to the boat, and home in a fine sun shine and the sky blue and all the grey cloud gone. And on the way the Captain hayled all upon the boat that a great number of dolphin were afore us; and he slowed the boat and changed its course, and we saw them all a-leap, more than I ever saw in my entire life, and then they were astern of us, and all greatly joyed by the sight of them.
  At supper, enjoyed two plates of fresh longerstines and a pint of wine at a fine taverne in Mallague, and mightily contented for the day.
  ‘I hope you are more calm of spirit than hitherto,’ says Mr. Jones. ‘I have consulted the Trippervisor and our hostess hath many five star reviews.’
  ‘I cannot gainsay that,’ say I, ‘for I have done the same. And yet I am obliged to draw your attencion to the bad one, for it obtrudes plainly and niggleth me. The one from a Malcolm Prince, of Birnham Wood.’
  ‘There is always one.’
  ‘Maybe.’
  ‘Eat your big prawn.’

18 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up, and having breakfasted (perched precariosely at the corner of the bed, so as not to spill coffee on the white carpitt) to a spar Shoppe, for victuals, and thence by boat to Egg Island. All on board are masked against the plague, but merry — a part from a woman who is all green of face and hides her head in the woolen garb of her husbands sweater, even before we start (we do not sit by her) — and the weather fine and the passage calm with some sitings of a possible dolphin, which is great mammle without legs, like a fish, named after the taverne on Tower street so bawdy it can be echolocated for miles around by its equally legless clients. Once landed, set out for a beach that promiced a fine view, only the walk four miles and the bracken along a track where we walked very wet, which my trousers did soak up, and so become very wet too. But by and by find ourselfs upon a great and wild expance of sand with the great spectacle of another isle out to sea, where there were many mountains, and the profile of it very striking, I think one of the finest views I ever saw, but a barren island and I would not wish to live there. On the beach no more than three or four, save ourselfs, in all the vast space, with the great sky above us and all great Neptune’s ocean before, and we did sit among some bolders to share our sandwichs, which were one of a hash of calfs head and the other of tripe, udder and marrowbone with a pickle, and some drinks, which were an Irn Bru for me and a Diet Coak for Mr. Jones, together with a Bountie bar and a Twicks and two yellow bannanas, one for each. Thus refreshed, back by foot along a good road, the land scape very pretty and with many quickbeam, all with berrys, some scarlett and others orange; and at the port took a little coffee to warm us, and thence by boat and our coach merrily home to our lodgeings, I all carefree from my preoccupations of the previose night.
  There found Mrs. Macbeth, on her knees with a bowl of water and cleansing produckts all around, scrubbing vigorosely at the inside of her coach and talking to herselfe under her breath.
  ‘Out, damned spot!’ I am certain I hear her mutter, as if preoccupied in her own mind; and only then, upon her seeing us, doth her manner change. ‘Oh, hello. Have ye had a guid day?’ says she, cordially. But the former words resounded in my head.
  ‘Act normal,’ hiss I to Mr. Jones out of the corner of my mouth, and grip his elbow very firm.
  ‘What are you — ?’ hisses he to me by return, but to her, ‘We have had a fine day upon Egg Island, pursuing a great walk to the beach at the Bay of Lague, the splendid panorama of Rum Isle laid before us,’ says he in enthusiastick and affabubble discourse with our hostess, but in a play of haste to reach our room I yank him peremptorilly across the threshold and to our room whereupon I barrycade the door.
  ‘What on earth has got into you?’ says he, crossly. ‘She must think us very rude!’
  ‘We are in grave danger!’ (I can barely get the words out.) ‘Do you not see? Duncan is missing! Her husband hath been sent on an errand! And today she effaceth her coach of evidence as if her life depend upon it! It all adds up to devilry! We must vacate this very hour! There is that restaurant with rooms I saw on Trippervisor! I rue the day we came here!’
  ‘The Old Librarie hath not had a table for two days,’ counters Mr. Jones, ‘so they will certanely have no rooms. You must calm your fevered imaginacion. We have a comodiose room with a more than ample en-sweet wet room, compleat with heated floor, and I find our hostess more than agreeable.’
  ‘But — ! But — !’
  He holds up a palm. ‘We shall dine as planned, and a double rum and violet shall assuage your baseless fears.’
  To supper at an inn a short journy hence, but the fare little succour to my sullenness of spirit, for the battered caramali was soft, the sea Base burned, the fenell tasteless and the stickitoffee Pudding bland. I wish I had chose the lamprey pie.
  ‘How wass every think?’ asks the servant, who I think a Poal or a Romany, as she clears our dishes.
  ‘Lovely,’ we beam, for she is foreyne and underpayed.
  Thence home and to our lodgeings with a pint of wine, where I did wedge shut our door with our towel rack and we settled to watch a play called Local Hero on the magick screen, in which played Mr. Bert Lancaster very well; and it a very fine play, and well-writ, with much good matter in it and above ordinary plays, and the scenery of it by a coincidense all of the beaches hereabouts. After, found red wine spilled upon the carpitt, so very late at night I must take a towel and rub away at it to clean it off.
  ‘How did that get there?’ asks Mr. Jones.
  ‘I do not know!’ say I, crossly. ‘Were you as careful drinking it as I pouring it? I should leave this to our hostess: she is good at this kind of thing. It will not come out.’
  ‘“What’s done cannot be undone,”’ quips Mr. Jones, mischievosely.
  And so to bed. 

17 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up, and speak with Mrs. Macbeth that yesterday we found it tricky to break fast in our room, where there is not a table so we must balance every thing upon our knees or on the corners of the bed, all in the hope to avail us of her unused breakfast room. ‘No one else hath complayned,’ says she, which styfles further discourse. After breakfast, it being a rainy day, set out by coach to Glen Finnen, where is a visitor Centre, only the coach park very full with a great many abroad, and find that they are here to see a special trayn pass over a great Vyaduct, which we watch and greatly joyed by all the steam of it and a whistle. By the lake come upon a very high tower with the statue of a man at the top, which I did explayne to Mr. Jones was a Mr. Potter, but he says it is Charles Edward Something Something-else Stuart, who come to ask if he could have his crown back, to which the National Trust said no, but he asked in such a manner that they made an Exhibicion of him and called him Bonny Prince Charming, and then he went to Ireland.
   After dinner walked abroad in the village, where many fine houses all of stone, and by an arrangement called upon the neighbores who lived by my parents cottage, though now moved to a new house which is down the hill, the old that they had a sorry sight, more than last I saw it; and come thither about 3 a-clock, and find them in fine form. There we spend two hours, I think, in discourse over a brewed tea and some cakes with much news, and though all older yet as if not a day passed between us, and all very merry. And my father hath sent with me a bottle of golden strong water to give to the mother of them all, which is a Famose Grouse, and they take it graciosely though I think it is like coals to New Castle, only they did not offer us any, which Mr. Jones had hoped they might, it now being the middle of the afternoon.
  ‘How are your mother and father?’ they ask me, and I tell them their news.
  ‘Whatever happened to Duncan?’ ask I, recalling the manager of the Estate.
  ‘Duncan MacCrinnan? Och, he’s still around,’ says Mrs. Macduff. ‘Haven’t seen him for a few days, mind. Stuart, have ye seen Duncan recently?’
  ‘I can’t say I have,’ says Mr. Macduff. ‘Probably sleeping it off.’
  So parted, and by and by to supper, when partoke of a Thaie meal taken away in some bags and containers of light glass that you can squash and recicle, from a house near by where lives a Thie lady who cooks to order, which I did on the Line, and Mr. Jones payed again for it with his Card, which is like it being free, and eat it in Mrs. Macbeths dining room, which we were allowed to do it in.
  ‘Whose do you suppose to be the bright yellow coach on the gravell by the front door?’ say I, with a mouthfull of pad krapow moo saap. ‘The toy Oater. I have seen no owner.’
  ‘Mrs. Macbeth tells me it is her husbands,’ slurps Mr. Jones, through noudle soup. ‘She hath sent him upon an errand.’
  ‘An errand? We have been here two full days,’ say I, and of a sudden find myself a little ill at ease. ‘It seems a long time for a thing such as an errand.’
  ‘I think your present fears are less than horrible imaginings,’ says Mr. Jones, but the hairs on my neck prickle as if I heard the words before. ‘This spaghettey is rather good. I am glad we went Italian.’
  And so I attend to my supper, but quiet, for I cannot shake of a foreboading.
  ‘I am gripped by a strange apprehencion,’ say I, ‘and an uncommon and unpleasant sensation in my thumbs.’
  ‘Well, the candles are nearly out,’ sighs Mr. Jones, laying his napkine aside, ‘and I for one have had a surfitt. You must put behind you your needless dysquiet, for we are on holiday and tomorrow we have a boat to catch.’
  And so to bed.
  The Famose Grouse, by the way, was the name of the liquor that was a present from my father and not a description of the mother of the next door neighbores. She is not famose for any thing.

16 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up, and slept well in the house in the hamlett of Morrar, where we come late last night, and to bed after some fish with chipps, which we take in our room, there being no inn to offer us a table, though after yesterdays affairs I still with some little grutchings in the morning.
  ‘The patient must minister to himselfe,’ admonishes Mr. Jones as he brings in the tray that hath been left for us, for Mrs. Macbeth says we must have a continentle breakfast in our room owing to the Covey (though none here but us), which we had, though it difficult to balance every thing and not spill any thing on the carpet, which being white is a bad choice for a room for guests, and I make a mentle note to avoid oysters. Mrs. Macbeth counsels that we must book ahead if we are to eat at supper, for there are still many abroad visiting and the taverns filled, and on the roads many great large coaches where people can sleep over night in them, and ablute themselfs and dine in them, and generally block up all the parking spaces.
  ‘Is it not like being in a play by Mr. Shakespeare,’ giggle I, ‘with our hostess so named?’
  ‘Like that one we saw on NT Live?’ asks Mr. Jones, vaigly.
  ‘Not that one,’ say I. ‘That was A Midsummers…something. A comedy, as ’twas billed, that I saw once at the King’s Theatre and did think the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life, and did vow never to see again. The one I am thinking of is a Tragedie.’
  ‘I think ’tis naught other than a fancy conjured by your overhung mind. Eat your keewee fruit and sober up.’
  Which I do, and while my head pounds in truth my heart is full of joy, it being more than twenty years, I think, since I come here. After breakfast, walked upon the beaches, where a fine view to the islands, and it all much as I remember it, only now a by-pass funded by Evrope as was proclaymed upon a sign; and then walked for a long while upon the sand, which was all powderie and the purest white I ever saw in such a thing, and all whiter for it being a fine sun shine. After dinner, we went on a very long walk above the lake, in the hills that look north, where are great inlets of the sea and greater hills, and the wind took away the Midgies so we were not all a-itch. For supper eat some fresh fish in Mallague, with a pint of fine wine, only the inn very noisie and the musick very loud, but much contented with our fare, which I think was the best there to be had — 3l 8s. 6d., which Mr. Jones payed on his Card, which is like not paying for any thing and joyed me greatly. And so home to our lodgeings and to bed.

15 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up very betimes and against my wishes, gravely sick with a fever, and an akeing weaknesse all over, and did make a great puke, onlie crawled not quite to the bath room before making it so it was all over the floor, being the illest I ever was in my entyre life and foreswearing of Scots wine forever. Witheld from solid food at breakfast, unable to trust in the dependibility of either end of my elimentary Tract, and swallowed water brash a-plenty and clenched my buttocks while Mr. Jones put away a platter of a transluscent egg, barely half-fryed, bacon afloat in a puddle of grease, toast blackened against the weevil, hash browns and a deep-fryed black pudding that resembled nothing less than a fat bloody turd in batter.
  ‘I remember climbing Mont Blanc and the man on the rope above me had the most terrible looseness of the bowels,’ says he, reminiscing fondly. ‘What you need is castor oil and a soapsud enema.’
  Whereupon fled I back to our room, skidded on the slimy floor and slid under the notice about emergency evacuation, which was in a sense apt for the Accident that promptly occurred.
  Collapsed in wretched misery in Mr. Jones’ coach while he settled the reckoning with the surly innkeeper: 6s. 9d., plus 9d. for a servant to cover my effluent with sawdust, for the benefit of the next guest.
  ‘We shall take the high road along the side of Loch Lomond,’ says Mr. Jones, consulting his pocket screen while I groan, slumped in the seat beside him, ‘for it is a route quicker by a full half hour, and the scenery is of an unparralelled beauty.’
  ‘I have read of a danger from outlaws and bandits by that road,’ moan I, weakly.
  ‘Those days are long gone,’ scoffs Mr. Jones. ‘You must rest, and I wager you shall regain your strength before you can say Ecclefechan. Have another Emmodium and enjoy the ride.’
  By and by, reached the peaks of the southern Trossacks, and beside us the long stretch of water known as Loch Lomonde.
  ‘It is time, if you are up to it, to admire the bonnie banks,’ says Mr. Jones. ‘We may be delayed. Googly Mappes is warning of a hold up.’
  ‘These cloud-enshrouded hilltops harbour a savage tribe of robbers and rustlers of cattle,’ say I, warylie, ‘known as the Clan MacFarlane — ’
  Whereupon at that very instant come great shouts and threatening cries that bring our coach to an emergencie halt, for impeding our progress upon on the road is a band of hairy brigands in plaid kilts and caps, brandishing firearms.
  ‘Loch Sloy! Loch Sloy!’ is their battle cry, though the impackt undermined by their tartan Covey masks, as they a-line to oppose our passage. Their uncouth and hirsute leader approaches.
  ‘Where are ye bound tae?’ demands he, advancing close and waving a muskett in our faces.
  ‘No further!’ cries Mr. Jones. ‘Special distancing!’
  ‘Oh, sorry!’ He retreats two paces, then: ‘Where are ye bound tae?’ bellows he a second time.
  ‘We are northbound, to Forty Williams via Glencow and beyond!’ answers Mr. Jones, resolutely. ‘Let us pass!’
  ‘Ye’ll pass when I say ye’ll pass! Lads — the coach!’
  But as they approach and open the doors a colick comes of a sudden upon me, and although my bowels are devoid of solids they are inflated with a copiose amount of wind that they can hold no longer and erupt with the most gaseose volume of flatulence I ever emitted in my entire life.
  ‘Jesus!’ cries the outlaw leader as his band all jump back several paces in disgust. ‘What the fook was that?’
  ‘McSalmonella,’ says Mr. Jones in distaste, wafting his face with one hand.
  ‘Wait!’ cries one of a pair in the unkempt troupe of a sudden, shouldering his rifle and peering closer from under bushy brows at my forlorn form. ‘I know that noxiose stench!’
  I squint at his wildly bearded face and that of his more lightly whiskered accomplice.
  ‘Ye’ve been at the bloody oyesters again, Pepys!’ cries he, as the pair whip off their tartan masks.
  ‘MacSporran!’
  ‘Samuel!’
  ‘Judith!’
  ‘Ye mean ye know these bastard sassenachs, ye mercenary pair?’ roars their leader.
  And so did it transpire that amity supplanted enmity, and as we shared of their strong water, which was the deepest gold in a liquid I did ever see in my life, and a great physick and Balm for my guts, as much as it was a restorative for my miserable spirits, so I emptied my pockets and shared with them our last pork scratchings, and, all merry, had much good discourse around a camp fire with MacSporran and his wife, who having fled England for whatever work they could find in the land of their Fathers, and arriving destytute on the shores of Loch Lomond, had sold their services to the highest bidder and so found themselves taken to little Loch Sloy in the hills, home to the thieving Clan MacFarlane, though lately dammed for hydreau-elecktric Power.
  ‘Don’ mine ’f I do,’ slur I some while later, accepting yet another top up of the local distillacion. I am by now somewhat enebriated, since I am drinking on a stomach emptied of every last morsel, and dare to pose an audaceous question of the clan chief.
  ‘So, what do you do…when you are not committing theft, robbery, murder…theft an’ tyranny?’ venture I, concentrating on stringing together the words in the right order.
  ‘Aye, well,’ says he, with a disarming bashfulnesse, ‘every few weeks we’ve a Book Club.’
  ‘Aye, Book Club,’ comes a general murmur of approval from around the fire.
  ‘Really?’ say I, for they look not the reading sort. ‘What do you read?’
  ‘Well, Crime and Punishment we did last year. Just now we’re doing Scottish police procedurals. The characterisation’s shite but we’re picking up some guid tips.’
  ‘Do you have a favoured author?’
  ‘Well,’ says the Scotsman, poking the twigs, ‘if I’m honest, I’ve a wee predilection for Edith Wharton.’
  ‘A fine writer,’ say I, wondering who he is, for I never heard that a woman wrote a book before.
  ‘We’re looking for new members, if ye’re interested.’
  ‘I fear it is impractickle,’ say I, though I bask in the warmth of goodwill, flames and liquor. ‘Nice tartan, by the way,’ I add, happily emboldened by the latter. Mr. Jones flashes a warning glance.
  ‘D’ye think so?’ says the clan chief. ‘D’ye no think the purple’s a wee bit garish?’
  ‘Goes with y’r nose — ’ say I, drunkenly waving a forefinger in the general direction of his face and snorting back a giggle.
  ‘Better with the heather!’ interjects Mr. Jones, hastilie, for he feels the camaradery hath gone too far, but our host has a capricious change of mood anyway.
  ‘Enough o’ this! My men want tae see what kind of men ye are! ’Tis time for a toast!’ cries the MacFarlane of MacFarlane and fixeth us with an unflinching stare. ‘Do ye uphold the Covenants of the Scots and wi’ all yer hearts and wi’ all yer minds, God help ye till the day ye die, pledge allegiance to Scotland and the wee lass Sturgeon?’
  ‘Who?’ say I, blankly.
  ‘We do!’ enthuses Mr. Jones quickly, looking dangerosely at me.
  ‘We do!’ cry I, taking my cue.
  ‘A toast then tae the wee lass Nicola Sturgeon!’ cries the clan chief to a great roar around the fire and a raising of tankards all round.
  ‘Tae the wee lass Nicola Sturgeon!’ choruses the band.
  ‘To the wheelless Nicholas Turgeon!’ cry I, giving it my all.
  ‘Well,’ says Mr. Jones, finally, ‘I think we should be on our way, Pepys, and leave these good people to their reading and their rustling.’
  ‘Ve’y well,’ manage I, clambering unsteadily to my feet and there rocking, ‘if w’ muss. ’Sbeen lovely Mcmeeting all of you Farlanes…and nest time I see the beaut-iffle Joodith…I sh’ll make sure…that she shall…toss my caber…in the tradish’nal way…Hah!’
  ‘I’ll drive,’ says Mr. Jones, hauling me swiftly down the hill.
  And so we on the road again, and the next I knew was that I awoke, it dark and the coach come to a stop on gravel by a low guest house upon a shore.
  ‘Where are we?’ yawn I.
  ‘We have arrived at our destinacion,’ says Mr. Jones, with satisfacktion. ‘Welcome to the Midge Coast.’

15 August-12 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

(In this part of the Diary no entry occurs for four weeks and several pages are left blank. During this time Pepys went into the country, as he subsequently mentions having been in Shaftesbury, Dorset, and visiting Stourhead, and later on a nearby hillside encountering a National Trust man with an enormous erection. The pages left blank were never filled up.) 

 

13 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up very betimes at 4 a’clock, and fortyfied by a fine porrage purposed to depart with Mr. Jones in his coach for some days in Scotland, in a place where once owned my mother and father a cottage, on the sea at the edge of the We[s]t Highlands. Summarily packed, set about our journey, the roads rough though we merry, and encountered many convenient staging posts where we stopped for the horses, and exchanged ourselfs in order to drive them, which were Moto at Rugby, and at south Stafford, which was RoadChef, I think. Spent the night at the Traveller Lodge in Knutsford, on the recommendacion to Mr. Jones of a drunkard from Little Booking Dotcom. The town pleasant though we early to bed, having come lately and suffering some wearyness for the long day, and needing to be up betimes for the morrow.  

 

14 September, in the year of our Lord 2021

Up, and out betimes, it being a day with much sun shine, which joyed us greatly, and stopped for a fine breakfast at Charnock Richard, which was a Welcome Brake, and thereafter rode a very good way, along a great road, to the boarder at Scotland by nightfall, and to Gretna, where partook of a pint of wine, some oysters and a plate of pork scratchings, though of the latter too many, so pocketed the excess for the journey tomorrow. Slept overnight at the best tavern there was, which was their premier Inn, only the room not so large as I expected, and there was no remoat for the magick screen and some dried secretions on the light switch.