As the saying goes, into each life a little rain must fall. We had our ups and downs at the Barn during my three and a half years there and I would guess the weather took most of the blame.
I must admit that spring in Scotland is wonderful. I remember a February picnic that Diana and I had, and the multitude of bluebells around. The summer in Scotland is very unreliable. Sometimes, I remember really warm days and, other summers, it seemed to rain most every week.
Photographs show me and the other girls sunbathing on the front lawn, or swimming in the oily waters off the jetty at Portkil. It wasn't recommended because you needed a long bath time to remove the oily mess from your hair and body.
Winter was a different story. Oilskins, souwesters and wellington boots were our constant outdoor uniform in those cold climes. We learned to live with the cold and the raw atmosphere. Once we could stagger down to the Fort, there was always a kettle boiling to make hot cocoa, and there also was always a small fire in the room where MacNeill, the night watchman, stayed during the night hours.
The Barn was heated only by the big stove in the kitchen and a fireplace in the living room at the other end of the house. So everyone made sure that both instruments of warmth were kept lit and well attended.
There's something exhilarating, when you're young, as well as upsetting, to walk backwards down the road to the village because the gale force of the wind was so intense you couldn't walk forward into it.
It reminds me of the famous, slightly naughty, riddle popular during World War II. It goes like this - Six little Wrens went out for a walk on a dark, cold night. And do you know who came back? Twelve Blue Tits!
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