Second Day in Scotland - The Flora and the Fauna

I spent most of day two taking unflattering pictures of Greg: scowling at a map, hoisting on his pack, trying to pass other hikers. I believe at the end I will have a complete album of 'Greg's Backpack at Thirty Feet'. As a photographer, I feel somewhat affronted by the exquisite natural beauty of this country. Where's the irony? The counterpoint? The lurking note of moral decay? These majestic vistas are far too consumating. Greg's ass it is.

Of course, I'm writing this on the fifth day, but let's just go with the narrative. Day two in Scotland was, for me, the first day of walking the West Highland Way. I am making this incredible journey of self-discovery in the unlikely company of a rambunctious Beagle pup and a wise old rooster, who are more or less working together to catch a diamond thief, save the family farm, and cross a treachorous range of mountains to rescue their adolescent friend William, a mute, who was mistakenly adopted by a mean, alcoholic farmer. And of course my brother Greg. It's a real adventure.

Already I'm learning lots about Scotland. There are three kinds of animals in Scotland: sheep, household pets, and the delightful cow. By far the most abundant are sheep, who litter every available space with their strange, puffy bodies. I have yet to become accustomed to their nightmarish wailing, like feral children left to wander around in the rain, endlessly calling to each other. You have to be careful of the water, because the sheep throw their corpses into the streams. Of course, some of them are babies, and they are very, very cute.

One happens across cows less often, but they are nonetheless populous. At one point I formulated an intention to 'go fuck with' some cows that were lying about, but I quickly became too frightened when they stood up, much as you might feel if you disturbed the Ancient Mothers from their quiet rest on each others' bellies. Many of the cows have bowl cuts with long bangs that hang down in their eyes, reminding me of those big sad teenagers whose loneliness gets mistaken for thuggery. They also have horns, for goring.

Since walking, I have recovered my childhood habit of eating grass. Nothing could be more jaunty. It requires a special tug, not so strong as the yank the grass from the dirt, just enough to unsheathe the juicy white bit from the tough, green cylinder. I constantly fantasize about living entirely off of grass, and having a cool scar on my face. Apart from grass there are thistles, an adequate symbol for things that are sort of nice but mostly prickly and unpleasant, like walking until your feet feel like they were put in a blender.