Boleskine House
We had some vistors staying with us this weekend - Shona trained it from Glasgow and Catriona flew in from London - but the weather let us down badly. We had wanted to show off all this glorious Highland scnery we'd been boring on about for months, but rain sent the family scurrying into the local bowling arcade. Mrs Z. won, in case you're interested.
Then, last night, the weather cleared slightly and we managed a trip down to Dores so that Catriona could take photographs by the shores of Loch Ness to prove to her London friends that she'd actually been to Scotland.
Having done that we piled back in the car and heading along the single track road towards Foyers. It was then I remembered we'd be passing and, as the sun began to set, I raked my memory to piece toghether the basic story of Aliester Crowley. Crowley, I recalled, had bought Boleskine House just before the end of the 19th centrury so that he could perfom some kind of occult ritual. He later sold the house to fund the publication of his book, but Boleskine has remained the source of many a spooky tale. It was once owned by Jimmy Page of fame, but is now a private residence and visitiors are not encouraged. Of course, as we neared the gatehouse of Boleskine I couldn't resist pretending the car was developing engine trrouble and that we might be stranded on this eerie spot until rescued by the AA... or the angels.
Well, at least I thought it was funny.
