AS a herd of nocturnal young bucks jutted and juked in the pitch dark outside, two clapped-out veterans of comparable male bonding ceremonies could be found cowering indoors. Unlike our frisky new neighbours, my friend Bennie and I were no longer in our bushy-tailed prime and despite several impermeable feet of the finest Canadian redwood separating us from the Inverness-shire wilderness, a single knock at the door at our plush Eagle Brae lodge had paralysed us with paranoia. Should we venture downstairs and answer this irate midnight visitor? Peek behind the curtains to assess their physical prowess and then calibrate our response? Neither option really appealed.
And then, again, a single thunderous BANG. Bennie’s eyes grew as wide and white as the full moon outside. In response, I reached for respite where it has been found since primordial apes boiled the first potato skins in lava streams - fermented ethanol.
Namely, the courtesy Rock Rose gin that had been left in our generous welcoming basket by owners Mike and Pawana Spencer-Nairn. A quick gulp immediately sharpened my thoughts. “Why would someone who is really raging just give a single chap?”, I mused, feeling like Sherlock Holmes but reeking like Columbo.
“You’d be rattling the door. Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang. One hard chap shows a lot of restraint.
Who knocks a door with a single almightly chap? He’s either a psychopath or it’s something else.” This summation did little to calm Bennie’s resolve – .
