Dunkeld Trip - Part, The First
Saturday, 22. December 2007, 09:31:33
Every December, my company likes to splash out on a big event, a 'thank you' for the hard work achieved throughout the year. 2005 we spent a night in a hotel in Ballater, on Royal Deeside. Last year was extra-special; we were treated to a meal and wine-tasting in Edinburgh castle! This year almost didn't happen, for some mysterious reason probably to do with cost, but at the last minute it was decided that we would be getting a day and 
night away in another remote hotel, the Dunkeld Hilton. Hurrah!
The Dunkeld Hilton covers an estate to the North of Dunkeld, over an area bigger than the town itself! It's a country retreat of a purposefully genteel nature, offering outdoor activities such as Clay-pigeon shooting and fishing, although they also sport a range of adrenaline-pumping off-road driving and quad-biking pursuits. It was an exciting prospect!
We left Aberdeen in the sleepy dawn light of 8.30am, laden with bags and eager to escape the cold grey granite, even if only for a 24 hours. The trip took less time than I had imagined, even taking into account the brief breakfast stop at a road-side McDonalds. I took the opportunity to rest my eyes during the trip, letting my mind wander where it wanted, demob happy away from the relentless tyranny of email and phone-calls.
Dunkeld itself was charming, yet barely more than a high street populated by two pubs, a few wee shops for passing tourists and the classic trio of Butcher, Baker and - *gasp* - even a genuine Greengrocer. No garish Tesco or Asda warehouses here, and how much better the town looked because of it! Without any further ado, our coach turned onto the the road leading through the Dunkeld Estate.
Birds of Clay
Our itinerary had been precisely organised: no sooner had we arrived than we were due at first major activity; clay-pigeon shooting. We didn't even have time to check in before we left, simply throwing our luggage into one of the only two people who managed to do so, before dashing back onto the bus and crossing the estate to the rifle ranges. Although I had initially chosen not to partake - guns and I aren't the cosiest of bedfellows - an opening had become available after one member of our office dropped out. I was offered it, and this time gave in to my curiosity. I'd never held a weapon before and felt I owed it to myself, and my neglected Inner Psychopath, to try it at least once.
We were met by a pair of amusingly stereotypical country gents. Barbour jackets, tweed trousers, leather boots, weathered expressions and grand facial hair. They quickly jollied us through some preliminary bureaucracy and passed round some 'ear defense', in the form of cylindrical foam plugs (accompanied by a well-practiced patriarchal ribald concerning the use of these inserts for domestic situations). Much merriment erupted at the presence of two females in our party. Suzanne had bravely volunteered to have a go (our second was merely spectating), which seemed to greatly amuse our two hosts. "Ooh, a lady! Better take the Ladies' gun, then, eh?" said one, eyes twinkling as he pulled a slender twelve-bore rifle from its wall-mount and slipped it into a carry-bag. Ghosts of Royston Vasey filled the ensuing silence.
We trooped along a gravel path until we reached the rifle range, whereupon we received a brief safety lecture and were split into two groups of four (more mention was made of 'the lady', much to Suzanne's growing consternation). It is at this point I must reveal that I was painfully aware of a slight disability I'd given myself...namely coming to the range without wearing my contact lenses. The Keratoconus in my right eye has damaged my vision to such an extent that it genuinely worried me how I'd cope with using it to stare down a barrel at a flying target, especially one no bigger than a spinning bar of soap. But, feeling immensely foolish at my lack of foresight (no pun intended), I chose not to mention this fact to my instructor, hoping to pull off a kind of natural ineptitude. This tactic worked beyond my wildest expectations, as an actual ineptitude manifested shortly after I lifted the rifle to the wrong shoulder.
There had also been some concern amongst us about the 'kick' the rifle would deliver. Reports of bruising had been
rife, but I managed my first six shots without much of anything to report in the way of pain. The second six, however, began to deliver little bites of something at the point where what should be my pectoral muscle meets the top of what I laughingly call a bicep. I would later find out I had been gifted three red lines (that are still present as I write this a full day later) but poor Suzanne managed to give herself a large bruise on the top of her right arm, puzzling everyone; according to Suz the gun had been resting nowhere near that part of her arm...
My score? 3 hits out of 26 shots fired.
None in the first round, causing my instructor some brow-furrowing and a round of polite encouragement from my team-mates. One in the second (a fluke - I'm convinced I closed my eyes as I squeezed the trigger), none in the third, despite some determined extra coaching, and two in the last where I'd finally figured out how to compensate for my awkward eyesight, thus preventing a full-blown collapse of my pride. Suzanne scored 4, and seemed delighted to have bested me (Beaten by a lady, oh the shame!). But I wasn't really bothered; guns are not something I've ever valued highly, and having satisfied my curiosity, I knew I'd probably never be picking up another one. (Sorry, Inner Psychopath: best stick to blades for now, eh?)
Lastly, it was interesting to note that the highest scorers in our group were the ones taking in the highest wage packets, suggesting some sly practising had been occurring whilst communal back was turned (this was of course vigourously denied). My manager was one of the suspects, but I wisely held my tongue, leaving hardier members to lead the charge: I felt a dramatic increase in respect was in order after his worryingly proficient performances behind a loaded rifle...!
Happy and chatty, we walked back the mile or so to the hotel, breath steaming in the crisp winter air, and went in search of a spot of lunch.
Food Porn
After finally checking in we hastened back down to the bar and perused the nearby menu's, hoping to order and eat before we had to leave for the next activity on our itinerary. Suddenly a horrified looking hotel manager came running over to us:
"Are you the ********* party?", he asked.
We nodded, dumbly.
"Oh no no no, you don't need to order-" as if such repugnant practices were solely to deter the peasants that blighted the plush upholstery now and again "-we have a table laid out for you in the dining area, and a buffet lunch prepared. If you'll follow me?"
The buffet was a sumptuous 3-course affair. Aaah, I so rarely get to use that word: "sumptuous". Say it with me. Sumptuous. Good, innit? Like bathing your vocal chords in Asps' milk. You feel classier just hearing the vowels coming from your gob. And we certainly felt classier upon seeing the rare spread they'd laid out for us; smoked salmon: mussels: meats of all variations on the theme of pink: dauphinoise potatoes looking very smart in a fetching herb and cream dressing: cucumber slices and sun-blushed tomato sections lightly drizzled with vinaigrette: Atlantic prawns on a bed of crisp, shredded lettuce: pasta dishes: curried bombay rice...this wasn't just food, this was M&S food!
(And if like me you find that completely genuine advert totally ridiculous, Click HERE and HERE to find people who think the same way!)
Lunch finished quickly, and all but two of our group, yours truly and the inestimable JC (name withheld because it's just too silly to say), dashed off to the hotly-anticipated Quad-biking.
Neither JC or myself had fancied the biking, for our own reasons. Personally I was looking forward to some time by myself to simply relax. The Dunkeld Hilton boasted a gym and pool and I was very much looking forward to a refreshing dip. Lunch needed to settle first, of course, so, heavy with culinary riches, I waddled back to my room and settled in front of the TV. This was when I first began to feel my starved little soul beginning to relax. Snug in my own little space I could feel the tension slowly melting away: no mean feat considering how much of it I'd had to endure for so long! An easy grin crept onto my face as I sat idly flicking through the TV channels. This was precisely what I needed.
After a time, and not finding much of interest on the four basic (read: free) channels, I decided to make a move and see if I couldn't find the swimming pool. Time for some exploring!
Your Leisure is Our Pleasure
Hotels are generally large places, and can be confusing buildings in which to navigate. This one was fairly easy, as long as you kept in mind which floor you were on. After having made my way downstairs looking for a door that was actually upstairs on the floor I started on, I was soon following the distinct tang of pool chlorine through long corridors and various fire-doors. Then, disaster! The stairwell I needed to use was blocked by two boiler-suited men fixing the disabled chair-lift.
"Um, hello?"
"Sorry mate, we're going to be here for ages."
"Ok. Is there another way down, do you know?"
Silence.
'Mm' I thought. I suddenly had the oddest feeling I was in one of those old point-and-click adventure games, like Monkey Island or Simon the Sorceror, and I was the plucky hero blocked from progressing to the next screen by unhelpful - yet memorable - characters. Perhaps I should check my inventory, see if there was an item that could help me solve this particular puzzle...?
Um, no. Perhaps I should stop being silly and go find something else to do. I left, giving up on the swimming for the moment but vowing to at least look for another entrance. I decided on a walk instead.
Armed with my trusty camera I headed along by the river and followed a path into the forest. After growing up in small villages surrounded by forestry, this felt very much like coming home. Cities are all well and good but they're just too sterile for this country boy, and it had been far too long since I'd been taken into nature's embrace like this. I won't go into too much detail here (you can view the pics in my album here), suffice to say it was a wonderfully peaceful and relaxed walk, despite the cold and somewhat austere winter atmosphere.
Oh, and on my way back I found another entrance to the Pool. Outside, on the ground floor. Mental note: always trust your instincts....!
- - -
Join me for part two of this epic tale, where I visit Dunkeld itself and witness an honest-to-gosh 999 emergency response, enjoy a fine dinner with dancing and much merriment, and reveal how it felt to have to leave the next morning!
night away in another remote hotel, the Dunkeld Hilton. Hurrah!The Dunkeld Hilton covers an estate to the North of Dunkeld, over an area bigger than the town itself! It's a country retreat of a purposefully genteel nature, offering outdoor activities such as Clay-pigeon shooting and fishing, although they also sport a range of adrenaline-pumping off-road driving and quad-biking pursuits. It was an exciting prospect!
We left Aberdeen in the sleepy dawn light of 8.30am, laden with bags and eager to escape the cold grey granite, even if only for a 24 hours. The trip took less time than I had imagined, even taking into account the brief breakfast stop at a road-side McDonalds. I took the opportunity to rest my eyes during the trip, letting my mind wander where it wanted, demob happy away from the relentless tyranny of email and phone-calls.
Dunkeld itself was charming, yet barely more than a high street populated by two pubs, a few wee shops for passing tourists and the classic trio of Butcher, Baker and - *gasp* - even a genuine Greengrocer. No garish Tesco or Asda warehouses here, and how much better the town looked because of it! Without any further ado, our coach turned onto the the road leading through the Dunkeld Estate.
Birds of Clay
Our itinerary had been precisely organised: no sooner had we arrived than we were due at first major activity; clay-pigeon shooting. We didn't even have time to check in before we left, simply throwing our luggage into one of the only two people who managed to do so, before dashing back onto the bus and crossing the estate to the rifle ranges. Although I had initially chosen not to partake - guns and I aren't the cosiest of bedfellows - an opening had become available after one member of our office dropped out. I was offered it, and this time gave in to my curiosity. I'd never held a weapon before and felt I owed it to myself, and my neglected Inner Psychopath, to try it at least once.
We were met by a pair of amusingly stereotypical country gents. Barbour jackets, tweed trousers, leather boots, weathered expressions and grand facial hair. They quickly jollied us through some preliminary bureaucracy and passed round some 'ear defense', in the form of cylindrical foam plugs (accompanied by a well-practiced patriarchal ribald concerning the use of these inserts for domestic situations). Much merriment erupted at the presence of two females in our party. Suzanne had bravely volunteered to have a go (our second was merely spectating), which seemed to greatly amuse our two hosts. "Ooh, a lady! Better take the Ladies' gun, then, eh?" said one, eyes twinkling as he pulled a slender twelve-bore rifle from its wall-mount and slipped it into a carry-bag. Ghosts of Royston Vasey filled the ensuing silence.
We trooped along a gravel path until we reached the rifle range, whereupon we received a brief safety lecture and were split into two groups of four (more mention was made of 'the lady', much to Suzanne's growing consternation). It is at this point I must reveal that I was painfully aware of a slight disability I'd given myself...namely coming to the range without wearing my contact lenses. The Keratoconus in my right eye has damaged my vision to such an extent that it genuinely worried me how I'd cope with using it to stare down a barrel at a flying target, especially one no bigger than a spinning bar of soap. But, feeling immensely foolish at my lack of foresight (no pun intended), I chose not to mention this fact to my instructor, hoping to pull off a kind of natural ineptitude. This tactic worked beyond my wildest expectations, as an actual ineptitude manifested shortly after I lifted the rifle to the wrong shoulder.
There had also been some concern amongst us about the 'kick' the rifle would deliver. Reports of bruising had been
rife, but I managed my first six shots without much of anything to report in the way of pain. The second six, however, began to deliver little bites of something at the point where what should be my pectoral muscle meets the top of what I laughingly call a bicep. I would later find out I had been gifted three red lines (that are still present as I write this a full day later) but poor Suzanne managed to give herself a large bruise on the top of her right arm, puzzling everyone; according to Suz the gun had been resting nowhere near that part of her arm...My score? 3 hits out of 26 shots fired.
None in the first round, causing my instructor some brow-furrowing and a round of polite encouragement from my team-mates. One in the second (a fluke - I'm convinced I closed my eyes as I squeezed the trigger), none in the third, despite some determined extra coaching, and two in the last where I'd finally figured out how to compensate for my awkward eyesight, thus preventing a full-blown collapse of my pride. Suzanne scored 4, and seemed delighted to have bested me (Beaten by a lady, oh the shame!). But I wasn't really bothered; guns are not something I've ever valued highly, and having satisfied my curiosity, I knew I'd probably never be picking up another one. (Sorry, Inner Psychopath: best stick to blades for now, eh?)Lastly, it was interesting to note that the highest scorers in our group were the ones taking in the highest wage packets, suggesting some sly practising had been occurring whilst communal back was turned (this was of course vigourously denied). My manager was one of the suspects, but I wisely held my tongue, leaving hardier members to lead the charge: I felt a dramatic increase in respect was in order after his worryingly proficient performances behind a loaded rifle...!
Happy and chatty, we walked back the mile or so to the hotel, breath steaming in the crisp winter air, and went in search of a spot of lunch.
Food Porn
After finally checking in we hastened back down to the bar and perused the nearby menu's, hoping to order and eat before we had to leave for the next activity on our itinerary. Suddenly a horrified looking hotel manager came running over to us:
"Are you the ********* party?", he asked.
We nodded, dumbly.
"Oh no no no, you don't need to order-" as if such repugnant practices were solely to deter the peasants that blighted the plush upholstery now and again "-we have a table laid out for you in the dining area, and a buffet lunch prepared. If you'll follow me?"
The buffet was a sumptuous 3-course affair. Aaah, I so rarely get to use that word: "sumptuous". Say it with me. Sumptuous. Good, innit? Like bathing your vocal chords in Asps' milk. You feel classier just hearing the vowels coming from your gob. And we certainly felt classier upon seeing the rare spread they'd laid out for us; smoked salmon: mussels: meats of all variations on the theme of pink: dauphinoise potatoes looking very smart in a fetching herb and cream dressing: cucumber slices and sun-blushed tomato sections lightly drizzled with vinaigrette: Atlantic prawns on a bed of crisp, shredded lettuce: pasta dishes: curried bombay rice...this wasn't just food, this was M&S food!
(And if like me you find that completely genuine advert totally ridiculous, Click HERE and HERE to find people who think the same way!)
Lunch finished quickly, and all but two of our group, yours truly and the inestimable JC (name withheld because it's just too silly to say), dashed off to the hotly-anticipated Quad-biking.
Neither JC or myself had fancied the biking, for our own reasons. Personally I was looking forward to some time by myself to simply relax. The Dunkeld Hilton boasted a gym and pool and I was very much looking forward to a refreshing dip. Lunch needed to settle first, of course, so, heavy with culinary riches, I waddled back to my room and settled in front of the TV. This was when I first began to feel my starved little soul beginning to relax. Snug in my own little space I could feel the tension slowly melting away: no mean feat considering how much of it I'd had to endure for so long! An easy grin crept onto my face as I sat idly flicking through the TV channels. This was precisely what I needed.
After a time, and not finding much of interest on the four basic (read: free) channels, I decided to make a move and see if I couldn't find the swimming pool. Time for some exploring!
Your Leisure is Our Pleasure
Hotels are generally large places, and can be confusing buildings in which to navigate. This one was fairly easy, as long as you kept in mind which floor you were on. After having made my way downstairs looking for a door that was actually upstairs on the floor I started on, I was soon following the distinct tang of pool chlorine through long corridors and various fire-doors. Then, disaster! The stairwell I needed to use was blocked by two boiler-suited men fixing the disabled chair-lift."Um, hello?"
"Sorry mate, we're going to be here for ages."
"Ok. Is there another way down, do you know?"
Silence.
'Mm' I thought. I suddenly had the oddest feeling I was in one of those old point-and-click adventure games, like Monkey Island or Simon the Sorceror, and I was the plucky hero blocked from progressing to the next screen by unhelpful - yet memorable - characters. Perhaps I should check my inventory, see if there was an item that could help me solve this particular puzzle...?
Um, no. Perhaps I should stop being silly and go find something else to do. I left, giving up on the swimming for the moment but vowing to at least look for another entrance. I decided on a walk instead.
Armed with my trusty camera I headed along by the river and followed a path into the forest. After growing up in small villages surrounded by forestry, this felt very much like coming home. Cities are all well and good but they're just too sterile for this country boy, and it had been far too long since I'd been taken into nature's embrace like this. I won't go into too much detail here (you can view the pics in my album here), suffice to say it was a wonderfully peaceful and relaxed walk, despite the cold and somewhat austere winter atmosphere.
Oh, and on my way back I found another entrance to the Pool. Outside, on the ground floor. Mental note: always trust your instincts....!
- - -
Join me for part two of this epic tale, where I visit Dunkeld itself and witness an honest-to-gosh 999 emergency response, enjoy a fine dinner with dancing and much merriment, and reveal how it felt to have to leave the next morning!
WIDGETIZE
Rhona Kirsten # 23. December 2007, 00:05
Miss Kimbers # 23. December 2007, 05:58
Love the add! What is M and S? The food company?
Rhona Kirsten # 23. December 2007, 06:35
GrantTLC # 23. December 2007, 07:17
Hmmmm....I'm not sure S&M have ever advertised on british TV. Not on the channels *I* watch, anyway.
M&S - Marks and Spencers - are an odd combination of supermarket and clothing for middle-class people who like to feel they're shopping somewhere a bit special. Hence the Food Porn advert.
Join the Mob? Who says I'm not one of them already?
Miss Kimbers # 23. December 2007, 07:23
Oh ok, yeah I've heard of M&S before then
GrantTLC # 23. December 2007, 07:36
And you should feel special, Kim. Being in my harem of women farmed from across the Opera Community makes you very special indeed. You are my number three! If the first two suddenly die or spontaneously become hideously unnattractive, you get to be number one!
Hey, no need to thank me; that's just the kinda guy I am.
Miss Kimbers # 23. December 2007, 08:34
kirsten # 23. December 2007, 19:14
GrantTLC # 24. December 2007, 00:37