THE WILD WEST

It has been an epically wet, working week in Argyll.  The burst pipes of winter 2023 (not a typo sadly) ruined a bathroom and a bedroom and it has taken this long to get it all fixed, largely because the insurers cut up rough.  You might have thought it would be an open and shut case, and that there would be no arguing from a nationwide organisation known by just three initials (apply to me direct for their name, the swines) who have happily taken our money for the last fifty years, during which time we haven’t made a single claim.  But you would be wrong: they have wriggled and writhed, and moved the goalposts time and again, and decided ‘no’ and then – surprise! – investigated our appeal against that decision themselves, and still come back with a ‘no’.  But at long last, and at our own expense, the work is finished and the rooms are usable again, just in time for our peak occupancy months.  It’s a wonderful place, this little house in a bog on the side of the loch, but nobody would call it luxurious or smart.  It has a water filtration system that makes the rain drinkable, no central heating, very little telly signal and a lot of midges in August.  It’s basic, comfortable-ish and inspiring, and one day, when all the essential work is done – for there is more in the pipeline, dear Reader, believe me – it will be restorative and restful again.  Just not quite yet.