A Spectator's Notebook
`—ritrat.'s no fool like an old fool: said my I wife and children and grandchildren, who will use any old saw to keep me trimmed to proper size. Well, I dare say. Some old fools still refresh themselves in Paris, or Stockholm. or in Manhattan if they can afford the fare; but for me it's the hills round Morar. I still like to pre- tend that my tastes are simple. So off I went, and after a week of walking, fishing, and wholly unproductive thinking I got a lift south as far as Bunachra. This is an unattractive town, but it is comfortably placed at the foot of the mountains, and I thought smugly that after a night's rest I should spend my last day in Scotland walking south over the heathery hills to Dunifoync, where I should get a bus to Glasgow and the night train for London. I found a large 'High- land' hotel that was rather too expensive for coach parties. At the desk a genteel girl looked uncertainly at my rucksack and venerable beard, but she was broadminded enough to offer me a room. It was still early, so I went out to have a look at the soft country that lies here along the edge of the Highland Line. I pushed through the mild air, and by the time I got back to the Celtic Cocktail Lounge I had walked six or seven miles. Enough for the evening, I thought. One dry Martini, dinner, half a bottle of claret, and to bed with my old bones.
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