Doors.

Three New Doors I got today. And what a revelation that was. I have never seen such superb workmanship before. And that was just the installing of them. The Doors themselves are bloody lovely.

After long hours of discussion about this and that and what price anyway, I got to choose. But since I was always going to be paying the bill, why should I not?

But this sort of thing can always be a bit of a chance. Although quite possibly not in Brittany.

At the time of discussing this my French as ever was not all that good, but I have got exactly what I wanted. Despite everyone telling me that I didn’t know what on earth I was talking about.

I now have three really lovely new doors that look nearly as good as they would have done 100 odd years ago. Which is what it was all about for me. I never wanted to change the face of my old house.

And such power to the man who knew how to do this. I am incapable of telling him of what it means to me.

Meanwhile the ghastly Dachshund nearly had a fit and tried to beat up the new door. No, I mean really. O’Connor got really upset and growled at The Door over and over? I have told him that it’s really okay and I sat on the floor with him to make him feel better. Yep. I am nearly as daft as he is. Poor little boy. He didn’t understand the smell of a new door or even what it looks like. But even that was a revelation. There are more things in life, Horatio. That dreadful little dog has taught me a thing or two.

The new door of my house is exactly what I wanted. It is North facing and not much to be done about that beyond a big window and an opening. I have no idea for why this house was built facing North when I get no natural light from the South. So it has always been a bit of a battle to get some light into here. 30 years and six and a half thousand Euros later I might have half managed it. But only half. The house is as it is. Like I said there is always something to be said for Dirt Floors. And O’Connor got a bit upset.

I have just seen the very best of Breton workmanship that anyone is ever likely to see.

1966.

What a year that was. England won The World Cup. Or did they?

I don’t actually know because I swanned off to Singapore in support of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, hard though it was. I mean, who in their right mind would choose to do this? The Tropics, eh what. Servants and all that rubbish. But the heat was a bit dire. And the children were frightfully boring, especially the baby. Dear of him. He couldn’t speak a word of English by the time I got him foisted back onto poor old me. He still has a bit of trouble with English despite being 54 years old now. But he is a Singapore Citizen. Such a pity he didn’t join the Singapore Army. He would probably be a General by now.

But then I didn’t choose. I just did as I was told. I went and then I came back. Coming back was the bad bit. I will certainly never recover.

The Table.

Sorry, I have gotten a bit carried away. Words you see.

I found this table in a shed somewhere many years ago. I don’t know if it is Oak or Mahogany or if I really care. It is round and actually has signs in the wood of my children doing their Homework. I gave it to my Number One Son once upon a time. But fortunately he didn’t want it so he gave it back to me.

Five decades on the feet have been chewed nearly into indistinction. Every dog I have ever owned had a chew at them. Although funnily enough never O’Connor. Not that I would have minded if he had. I was past caring about this little shit by then. Come and chew the table feet for Christ’s sake, instead of digging up my lovely garden.

It never colours you see. Put a hot cup on it and the mark is brief and then gone tomorrow. There actually isn’t anything anyone could do to spoil this table.

It is normally covered in family rubbish. But just for today it wasn’t. And such a pleasure that was to see.

Glen Bogle.

Oh Joy. In the middle of watching any old rubbish I somehow managed to trip over Monarch of The Glen. That’s Big Eric, by the way. The actual Monarch of The Glen. He eventually did a bit too much rutting. But then don’t they all.

All frightfully Scottish of course, but of much delight to me. My love of Scotland started in Glasgow, grimey old City, but it was real. Real people who were proud to be Glaswegians. Even if they were a a few bob short of a shilling on a Saturday Night.

My love spread outwards and upwards after that. And so began my passion for The Highlands and history as well if you like. Shit, they haven’t half got some history.

I am an Irish Mitchell, but my Clan MacDonnell has the largest grave at Culloden. It is really, really big. Twice the size of the Campbell Traitors. Good one, eh what. Or is it?

There is obviously not a lot to be said for The Mitchells beyond honour and glory, which is possibly why the females of the Clan survived for as long as I have. Honour and glory are all very well, but I would rather have stab them in the back when they weren’t watching. Horses for courses, I say. Better still, don’t take me on in the first place.

But if you want a bit of the glory take a passing glance at The Highlands. And not necessarily Fort William, although I did once nearly climb Ben Nevis. I packed my hand in when I ran out of oxygen half way up.

Coming back down was far harder than going up. I sat there and looked down. And nearly died of terror.

This is my testimony to Scotland. I wish that I lived there, but the price of any sort of hovel got beyond me. Which is why I live in a hovel in Brittany.. All Celts you see.

Monarch of The Glen can be found on Best Series. me.