3 October 2009--It's a very blustery morning, with rain coming and going. I spend a couple of hours in
the internet café catching up on business. The other day I made a comment on one of the whisky forums about the
colossal ego of a certain writer (or, more to the point, my dismay at the willingness of some enthusiasts to feed that ego). Now
I am astonished to find that the fellow himself has strode down from his Olympus, hurling thunderbolts in my general
direction. He is trying to bully me into apologizing, threatening to tell a tale he supposes will embarrass me if I
don't. Why me? Apparently he has a thing about "anonymous bloggers" who dare to disparage him; by accident of mutual
acquaintance, he happens to know a thing or two he thinks he can use against me. So I'm to be an example, I guess.
I point out to him, via private message, that he risks embarrassing our common friend with his story, and tell him I have
no intention of apologizing for an honest opinion. If anything, he has hardened my distaste for him.
A very blustery morning indeed.
The sky clears later, but it's still much too windy to go for a walk, so I go for a drive instead. The Lake District is the most rugged part of England I have seen, and I shortly find myself on mountain roads that rival the pass over Applecross for steep grades and sheer drops. At a couple of points, there is water on the road, and my tires spin, unable to gain enough traction to take the hill. It's not a pleasant feeling.
High up a mountain pass, I find the substantial ruin of Hardknott Roman Fort. The effort necessary to build such a thing way up here is almost unimaginable. Hope it was worth it.
Dinner and pints at the Black Bull, a handsome old coaching inn in the center of town. A very busy Saturday night.