On the ground, things don’t always look like they do on maps. In real life, the lane looked more like a driveway, and was posted with a notice that it was only for guests of the bunkhouse. I wasn’t a guest at the bunkhouse, but I’m a foreigner, so that pretty much excuses any trespasses. As I started down the driveway, I came upon a lady tending to chickens. With my best American accent, I asked her if this was the track which connected to the footpath.
Champion chicken |
She replied that it was indeed the right of way, and explained that she was in the process of moving her hens. Her name is Dorinda and she and her husband run the bunkhouse. More interestingly, their hobby is raising exotic chickens. They’ve got chickens from Japan, Poland, Russia, and I can’t remember how many different countries. The chickens all look different, and about the only thing they have in common is feathers, beaks and feet. Several of the chickens are British champions, and she shows them regularly. I’m not exactly sure what’s involved in showing chickens; I doubt they are led around on leashes. Some species were bred for fighting, but since that’s no longer allowed, I’m not sure how they are judged.
Dorinda |
Dorinda pointed me in the direction of the lane, and told me to climb over the first locked gate, and proceed to Kaislie Garden, about a mile down the path. After passing through the garden, she said my way would be barred by a high, locked gate, but I should turn left down a lane, pass through the gift shop, and out to the car park. Since I was walking and not visiting the gardens, I wouldn’t have to pay the admission charge.
Well, OK. I followed her instructions to the letter, and when passing through the gift shop, I told the clerk in my best American accent, “I think I’m lost.” She pointed me to the car park and I left without paying the admission. Funny thing, though, I walked through most of the garden to get there. I wonder if the same process works in movie theaters.
A little later, I was back on the road, and saw a man working in his garage. I don’t normally enter people’s garages to engage in conversation, but right there next to him was a vintage Triumph. So I walked up and introduced myself to Peter, and asked if I could take a picture of his car. Peter built the car in 1984 from a kit, so it’s not exactly a vintage Triumph, but it is 27 years old.
Peebles |
© 2011 Ken Klug