On repeat

When we locked down the first time, it took a week or two for the sheer oddness and novelty to wear off, as well as the sense of relief at our not having to worry any more about whether we were wise to be contemplating a holiday in Cyprus. But now, after ten months of pandemic living - because I can't think of the summer as more than a fleeting dream, nor of our week in Arran as different from the hearty breakfast traditionally consumed by the condemned - there is nothing. Even the promised vaccine is overshadowed by the ineptitude of the UK politicians, the mutations of the virus and the shortage of glass bottles. That last says it all, really. And because of this, it's so hard to motivate myself to anything but this increasingly tiring routine of food provision, exercise and eating.

It must be so hard to be an NHS worker - at any level - contemplating the inevitability of the current surge in infections (post-New Year) and serious illness (post-Christmas) and the effect it has on their working lives - and I can't help wondering if they're allowed any other life just now. 

So, to today. Mr PB actually had an appointment with the dental hygienist today; in the absence of a drill she apparently scraped at his teeth in a manner suggestive of scraping down paintwork. Sounds horrid - but he came home triumphant with a fistful of interdental brushes (various sizes) which are hard to find in any number in the chemist's. He reported that the main thoroughfare was deserted, which would tend to suggest that people are being sensible. It was certainly as silent as Ne'erday again.

Because of this, we didn't go out till the afternoon, so you've got yet another sunset blip with the snowy Arran hills looking fabulous. The countryside was so silent - when we stood to listen at one point, we could hear the odd tweet from the many little birds in the distant trees, the bellowing of an incarcerated cow (or bull - do they make the same noises?), and the sudden plashing of little feet in mud as a small herd of nosey sheep lost their collective nerve as we approached and ran for it. The air was cold, but filled with the warm smell of silage, and the light turned golden around us. 

All properly peaceful - until a roar presaged the arrival down a farm track and onto the road of 5 quad bikes, each with two people on them, the first strangely covered in with canvas like a military vehicle. They sped past down into the dip where the road crosses the Ardyne burn and turned into the open gate of Knockdow, the local big house now owned by a Russian. Shortly afterwards we could hear shrieks of laughter, then the roar of engines as they started up again. It's the first time we've seen people there in any number, other than staff. Can't help wondering where they've come from...

Thing is, they shouldn't have. At all. 

And on the way home, we could see a smallish naval ship heading down the firth in the dusk. The ShipFinder informed us that it was engaged in law enforcement. Not seen one of these in a while. Maybe checking for any more landowners deciding to hunker down in Bute ...