Another of my sisters, Camella, had been camping on the banks of the loch alone for some days as part of a science project, and we intended to touch down nearby and join her. Dana was piloting the chopper, so I directed her to touch down on a cramped green sward close to the campsite. It was a crisp, bright day at the end of winter and the ground was boggy underfoot. There wasn't a whole lot of space on shore for the landing. A hedge ran across a long spit of land cutting across the loch, and it was halfway along this that Camella had set up her campsite. I was wearing expensive work brogues, and I suggested that we return to Essex before disembarking in order to change our footwear. Li told me to stop being ridiculous, and we proceeded on our way, my shoes promptly ruined by the sticky mud. "Forget about it!" Li snapped, "we're here now!"
The geography of the loch was not at all in keeping with its real world terrain, there being some lovely blue mountains rising in the distance and lots of marshland on the edges of the water, with duckweed and water fennel clogging up the ground. As we traipsed single file along the narrow spit, following the hedge, I felt something crawl up my trouser leg and sting me on the shin. I yelped and shook it out, seeing a small, waspish creature buzzing away. "What the fuck was that!" I yelled, rubbing the sore spot. When we joined up with Camella, the sisters immediately started messing around and being immature, so I butted in and complained about the bite. Camella explained that they were called droxies, and that there were swarms of them all over the swampy areas, including a nest next to her campsite. "Keep your trousers tucked into your socks, but they'll probably still sting your face and neck. They're much more threatening than the Loch Ness Monster."
"Does it really exist?" Li asked.
"Nobody knows," I told her, "but keep an eye out for it just in case!" Li looked nervous at that point, so I told her it probably only ate fish, and Irish monks. She didn't understand the reference. After helping Camella gather up her belongings, we returned the way we had walked and repaired to a village inn overlooking a natural bay. My extended family in Nottingham were due to join us there for lunch. In the meantime, I looked out of the restaurant windows at the small fishing village, and the lapping waters of the loch beyond. I spotted some black humps breaking the surface in the distance, swiftly followed by a tall dorsal fin and white patches. It was a pod of killer whales. I beckoned everyone over to look, and fumbled for my digital camera. Unfortunately, the shutter was unresponsive and I missed the shot. "Piece of crap, I only bought it three years ago!" I complained.
The whales swam closer to shore, and one of them even beached itself onto the shingles. It was the perfect opportunity for a photo, but still my camera refused to cooperate. By now a big crowd had arrived for the lunch buffet, and everyone was at the windows pushing for a closer look. There were also penguins waddling out of the waves onto the shore, as though purposely tantalasing me for being unable to take photos. My relatives turned up and I was forced to abandon my failed nature photography in order to exchange the necessary courtesies. Sandwiches were passed round, coffee was brewed, and the penguins and whales swam off. I scratched at my swelling droxy bite and lamented my ruined brogues.
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