Drifting through

I've just been to choir, so it must have been Tuesday, this strange day that should have been spent elsewhere - though as I've now learned from someone who lives there, they had snow in Madeira as well as That Wind. I got up insanely late, mainly because I wasn't in bed till well after 1am and heard two strike before I went to sleep. So what did I do when I finally emerged? Not much, really. It was coffee-time before I knew it, and the weather didn't look so bad outside so I reverted to my usual panacea for all ills and decided a walk would be in order. (This despite an earlier decision to avoid doing too much walking on choir days because of the knackering effect of both ...)

Despite my obvious grumpiness, Himself came too. We marched up Glen Massan, past the hay fever-giving catkins, past the roaring gorges, up to the corrie that forms the upper glen. We passed the shepherd at the foot of the hill putting a sheepdog through its paces with a bunch of about six sheep; I took a video and some photos, but decided against posting here because you really needed to be there to hear the amazing repertoire of thin, high whistles that elicited an instant response from the dog. How the dog learns the different moves to link to the different tones of whistle I don't know. It was just a great interlude.

Choir was good, though two of the tenors were missing; one of them is away skiing and we were both going to be guilty of being on holiday at the same time ... But I sang well and felt better.

Blipping the amazing plasticity of the water of the Massan Burn where it swept greenly round a bend in its upper reaches. I had quite a ploughter through tussocks and moss to get there, but it was worth it.

How would you spell ploughter?