Railings

A day of tasks, but with enough time to share one corner of His Lordship’s triangular yogurt crunchy biscuit in the Two Thin Laddies cafe.

HL bought our Euros for France and I changed my Scottish Bank notes for English ones to send to my small grandson in deepest darkest West Yorkshire where they hold Scottish money up to the light with a suspicion bordering on the extreme.

Then it was time to make THE CAKE, the particular hair shirt that I wear every seven months for my book group gathering.
We meet tomorrow evening and gluten free has to be the way to go for one of our coeliac members.

With no other baking practice in the cake free environs of the Dower House, I am always tentative about a successful outcome, and so I made it this morning with the proviso that if it seems a disaster, I can still hop out and buy a meringue case to fill with fruit tomorrow.

It’s out of the oven and cooling as I type. It looks as if it might be edible: I just hope it keeps fresh until tomorrow……. Oh the worries of a non domestic goddess.

A Long Wet Sunday

This was not a day for rising with the lark or even with alacrity.
The rains had arrived as predicted, washing away yesterday’s summer in an instant and turning the world outside the door into a giant shower cabinet with the water running on full.

There was nothing for it but to decamp to a local cafe, indulge in sugary goodies, and watch the world beyond the window go by under umbrellas, or fellow cafe dwellers surfing the internet before buying the Sunday Papers and retreating homeward.

It will be a long day.

Traprain Law

Up with the lark today and out on two wheels apiece, into a clear cool morning with a low blinding sun, a moon not quite set and quiet roads, only a few taxis and the odd late night reveller making it home unsteadily.

It was sheer heaven to have the world to ourselves as we went down the cycle path by the Esk in Musselburgh to then climb up by Carberry to the high spot of Cousland, and through the village still fast asleep with nothing stirring save a roe deer that bounded across the road in front of us and a hare who kept pace up ahead.

Along past Pencaitland to Samuelston with a stop for a banana and a photograph of Traprain Law sporting a wreath of mist in the distance, and then down hill to Longniddry and the coast road by Port Seton where we had a view of the palest satin blue sea, a high tide making it appear to be up to the road.
Had it not been for the low blue coastline of Fife marking the horizon, the sea and sky would have seemed as one.

A coffee back home, sitting outside at the local cafe, and with a few clouds appearing overhead, we considered with 40 miles on the clock, that we had had the best of the day.

Blowing in the Wind

It looked as though it had been snowing this morning when I pulled up the blinds and saw the grass covered in white and what looked like snowflakes floating past the window on the breeze.
When I investigated I discovered it was like flimsy cotton wool, covering little oval seed pods in various stages of bursting open.
This could be the work of a variety of the poplar tree, perhaps the Black Poplar, but if anyone wants to contradict this, feel free.
It is certainly an ingenious way for the seeds to be transported by the light as air white fluff surrounding them.

Leaving his Mark

So there we have it: the much lauded new royal Prince has been named, George Alexander Louis – Doddie Cambridge or Doddie Wales as he might well be known to us in Scotland.

His Lordship who has the second name, thought that a future King SandyI sounded rather cool and modern, but perhaps not very regal, and I don’t suppose King Eck sounds any more so.
Prince George it will be, and no doubt Asda* will be delighted.

And the rain came as predicted along with a wet shawl of haar, settling on the landscape as far as the eye could. A dismal gloomy day, to dampen the mood after the euphoria of so many sunny warm days.

Still, not everything was unhappy; there was one creature that was delighted with the dampness as he and his slug cousins appeared as if by magic from nowhere, to parade across my path in stately slithers.

* the Asda store has its own clothing range called ‘George’.

Respect

This is the first chance I have had to pay respect and homage to Chris Froome and team Skye for a blistering performance in the Tour de France.

I can’t help thinking that ‘blistering’ is a very appropriate word for 3 weeks in the saddle, pedalling well over a hundred miles every day.
They must either have undercarriages as tough as old boots or they are built differently to the rest of us who squirm about after 20 miles in an effort to minimise damage and alleviate discomfort in that area.

Whereas His Lordship tends to collect toy soldiers, I like my little cyclists, although I have to say the yellow jersey is hardly a Chris Froome look alike with chunky legs like these…..perhaps he’s more Bradley Wiggins.

There has been an early trip into town and an accident with the prawns spilling untrammelled all over the inside of my rucksack- they were fortunately dead. The smell can only get worse.

Gala Week in Musselburgh

All dressed up….
…and nowhere to go.
Musslelburgh Gala week and the tide is out .

Whose idea was it to go out for a cycle run at 6am? Mine.
Whose idea was it to bring that forward to 5:30am? His Lordship’s.

In the event it was a good move and meant we had quiet roads down to Joppa,
( no sign of fellow photographer on his early morning run, but we noticed a tent pitched on the beach), through Musselburgh and Tranent to the out reaches of Haddington, returning by Longniddry, Port Seton, Prestonpans and the Innocent Railway Path to find we were too early for our local cafe to be open.

The heatwave had taken a back seat this morning and it was grey and overcast and none too warm either although there was no wind.

Although it would have been a bonus to have had a bright shiny morning, it was ideal cycling weather and now we have the day to relax, read the papers and watch the last day of the Tour with our fingers crossed for a second British victory in the unlikely cycling shape of Chris Froome.

Helmets off for an amazing performance from him over the last 3 weeks.

A visit to the Garden Centre

We visited the local garden centre- The Land of Flowers as I have designated it- this morning for the first time in months and instead of buying plants which delight in dying in the patio tubs while we are off jaunting, I bought a remainder book ‘ The Man in Seat 61’ which is a guide to rail travel in Europe and beyond.

It occurred to me that instead of a Jet 2 flight to Budapest to visit Son #2, we could spend more of the kids’s inheritance, and travel there and back by rail.
How exciting would that be, with no limits on hold baggage or leg room and a chance to see the countryside at a meaningful level.

Even if this journey doesn’t happen, I will enjoy planning the possibility.

Since it is apparently 7 years since we last had a heatwave such as this, His Lordship and I looked back at his pictorial account of the summer of 2006 and discovered that we were in Eire then for a family wedding in County Wexford and then went camping with our bikes up to County Cavan and had a week without any rain, and roads on which the tar was melting.
Heady days indeed – what a pity we have to wait 7 years for a repeat.

Paradise Enow

‘A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread–and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness–
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow! ‘

Well, better forget the bread, substitute Lewis Man for the poetry and maybe forget about the singing Lordship. Paradise indeed.

There was another trip down to sunny Leith this morning to collect His Lordship’s new glasses, and time for me to watch the huge cruise ship Azamara docking in Western Harbour,and notice the Silver Cloud already in port, both of them completely overwhelming the Royal yacht in size.

It’s salad again for tea, but before that, a sit in the sun with a glass of Rose and some sociability with an old former school mate.

Life is a Bowl of Cherries

Life is a bowl of cherries especially when the inside of the house is cooler than the outside. Despite the cloud cover, the breeze was straight off the Sahara as we cycled forth to buy salad ingredients in the Morningside of ‘fur coats and nae knickers’.

I will whisper that I’m beginning to get ever so slightly tired of salad and summer fare, and will embrace winter stews and sprouts in due time, but not just yet if it means an end to this Mediterranean climate which has been 7 years in coming, years in which my five of my grandchildren have never known a homegrown heat wave.

I didn’t mind being woken early again this morning by His Lordship to hear that my picture of St Bernard’s Well in Stockbridge had hit the local paper.
The last time it happened, a friend, who shall remain anonymous, brought me down to earth by telling me I had sold my soul even though no money had changed hands.

The sun has now found it’s way out from behind the clouds and my former running partner is coming to inspect the Dower House this afternoon. We will sit outside under the sun umbrella and play catch up with news.
Life is indeed a bowl of cherries today.