ONE SUMMER DAY

Thursday July 24th
Today has been a hot day.
Just let that sink in for a moment.
Today has been a hot day.
It’s actually been the hottest day of the year here, although hardly a scorcher by our standards. Around 27 or 28 degrees!
We went to the gym this morning and this afternoon took a drive to the Cotswold village of Bibury.
This is a very old and very picturesque village with a history going back to the Iron Age. Its church of St Mary is 12th century but there have been remnants of Anglo Saxon gravestones found in the graveyard.
The village’s economy back in the 1700’s was based on the production of cloth which they used to spread out on “The Rack Island” a field between the Colne River and the mill stream.
Today of course a lot of its income is from tourism, the row of lovely old weavers’ cottages said to be the most photographed cottages in England. After a quiet stroll in the sunshine, Barbara and I enjoyed the tradition cream tea of scones with jam and clotted cream. As I said to Barbara, it reminded me of “that last summer just before the war in ‘39. Celia was in the garden and I was mixing the Pimms......”
No! Sorry, that was Celia Johnson and Noel Coward in “In Which We Serve.”
This country is getting to me. It’s a good thing we’re coming home in October.

THE BATTLE PROMS

Sunday July 20th
I know I have told you about visits to Blenheim Castle in the past, but yesterday Barbara and I, Fritha and Anthony were back there again for a most memorable experience.
You’ll have seen the famous Proms Concerts in London on TV, and of course we have our own in Melbourne. But yesterday, we went to what are known as “The Battle Proms”.
This is a proms concert staged in the open air on the huge Blenheim estate, featuring not only music but Napoleonic cavalry, cannon fire and fireworks.
We got there at around 4pm, and set up camp with thousands of other concert goers, in front of a temporary sound shell. At our backs were rows of stalls flogging coffees, drinks, roast pork, and of course lots of flags for us to wave at appropriate moments. Now you’d expect this to be a very British affair, as indeed it was, but there were also Australians, New Zealanders and South Africans all over the place.
Part of the tradition at these things is to dress up. We didn’t because for one thing it was threatening to rain. (In the end we only got a sprinkle of rain.), but many people did. There were men in white suits with panama hats and union jack waistcoats, and some women in evening gowns. The thing to drink is Pimms, and we started out with a jug of that along with a picnic meal we’d brought with us. While we waited for the main events, a folk singer and a harpist kept things going, along with bagpipes.
While we sat around drinking Pimms and making smart arse comments about the eccentricities of the Brits, we were more than ready to join in when things got under way.
First up there was a demonstration of skirmishing and cavalry action by a lot of men and women dressed in the magnificent uniforms of the Napoleonic period armies, British and French. They charged up and down a field waving swords and lances, tent pegging and slashing wildly at cabbages. We assumed they were French cabbages, although it was a team of “French chasseurs” who actually won the contest, beating the British “heavy dragoons.” They all looked superb in those grand uniforms, but I have to say that up close, a number of them looked overweight (really heavy dragoons) and I felt sorry for the horses.
Then with the sun beginning to lower in the west, the proceedings really began when the orchestra opened with a performance of ”Jupiter” from “The Planets” and with a roar, this beautifully restored Spitfire suddenly swooped down out of the clouds. For the next fifteen minutes this gorgeous aircraft banked and rolled and climbed in time with the music. I’m no aircraft fanatic (although many of you know that “The Battle of Britain” is one of my favourite movies), but to watch the manoeuvres of this sixty year old plane as it wheeled and dived like a bird dropping to a few hundred feet over our heads, and then up and up into the clouds with the sun glinting on its wings; was just mesmerising. As Fritha said, “That was the coolest thing!”
I read later that this Spitfire was built in 1944 and took part in the war over Europe. It did feature in the aforementioned movie, and was still flying in 1960, as part of the Irish Air Corps. It was bought and restored in the eighties by a man named Nick Grace. He died in 1988 and his wife Caroline learned to fly it for air displays. It was Caroline Grace at the controls last night.
After that we enjoyed a programme of classic Proms numbers; La Donna e Mobile, the Light Cavalry Overture and of course the 1812 Overture complete with live cannon fire and fireworks.
After an interval, and a couple of bottles of white wine, we were well prepared for the big traditional numbers.
So we all joined in waving our flags and singing along with everyone else to Jerusalem (And Did Those Feet in Ancient Times....”), The Sailor’s Hornpipe, (to which you are expected to bob up and down in time, while you wave your Union Jack), Rule Britannia, and finally of course “Land of Hope and Glory”. At that point the sky was alive with fireworks, cannon fire and everybody going completely mad with the flags and the singing. My daughter Fritha summed up the atmosphere. ”I cannot believe that I would ever have stood here amongst all these people waving a Union Jack and carrying on like this.”
This morning, reality has kicked in again but last night was an unforgettable evening.

Love that Spitfire!

11 DAYS IN THE LAKES DISTRICT AND SCOTLAND

Monday July 7th
We got up early today to head off on our northern adventure. It’s been a showery and overcast day, but once we hit the motorway, the two hundred or so miles flew by. We stopped a couple of times for coffee breaks and reached the Lakes District a little after lunchtime. Our first impression was of an over commercialised and tourist crammed horror. This was on Lake Windermere where every second shop was full of cheap souvenirs, and overstuffed coach tourists, so after eating a hasty sandwich we got out of there.
Second impressions were much better as we drove around the lake past miles of greenery and forest, with sheep grazing in fields and picturesque grey slate cottages and manor houses around every corner. Corners are a big feature here with winding roads so narrow that you dare not speed.
When we arrived at our Bed and Breakfast our concerns about overcrowding vanished. Imagine a white painted stone farmhouse on the slope of a hill and overlooking a small glassy lake or tarn, and set against a background of high fells crowned by scudding clouds and mist. That’s the view from our bedroom window. The place is called Toc How and it’s a working farm with sheep and cows grazing in the fields outside. It’s owned by the National Trust and was one of many farms owned around here by Beatrix Potter. We explored the area a little before dinner in the nearby village of Hawkshead, a charming spot with lots of very old houses and pubs, many with Potter connections. Lots of her stories are set in these villages . We decided to get up early tomorrow and do some healthy walking. In the meantime we enjoyed a dinner at the Queen’s Head.
Tuesday July 8th
Today is misty, not to say rainy, but in this countryside it all adds to its charm. We enjoyed breakfast of fruit and yoghurt, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee/tea. Then we donned waterproof jackets and Blundstones and struck out for the village across country. We trekked along narrow little trails through woods of ancient oaks, their roots covered in green moss and lichens. Then through boggy patches and across fields with black faced sheep watching on. Every few hundred yards we climbed over styles and around five barred swinging gates known as “kissing gates”.
An hour later, muddied and somewhat damp, we arrived in Hawkshead again and headed for the nearest coffee shop. After that we decided to go back to Toc How and change before exploring further in more comfort, by car. On the way back we passed through a couple of farms and met a woman walking her dogs. She told us she had just seen a roe deer with two fauns, a little further on. We kept a lookout on our way back but didn’t see them. There are supposed to be a lot of deer around here, so we may still get lucky.
Once we’d changed and hung things up to dry, we drove once more into Hawkshead where we visited the former law office of William Heelis. He was the husband of Beatrix Potter and they’ve restored his office and upstairs there is a collection of Beatrix Potter memorabilia including the original charming watercolours of Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddleduck, Mrs Tiggy-Winkle and all the others. Tomorrow we will go to Hill Top, the first of Beatrix Potter’s many farmhouses to see more of the life she led here. She conserved huge chunks of the country here and gave them to the National Trust. But today we had another pilgrimage to make, to Dove Cottage in the village of Grasmere. In Hawkshead we had visited the school building where the poet William Wordsworth had received his education. A rather grim place where he spent ten or more hours a day for nine years learning Latin and Greek and mathematics! His name is even carved on one of the battered desks. But now we drove through misty drizzle by the water until we reached the shiny wet stone houses of the village, where Wordsworth wrote his greatest poetry, and where he lived with his wife and his sister and his children. We spent half an hour in a Wordsworth museum where we could read the manuscripts of his poetry, with words scratched out and blots and all, and at the same time listen to the reading of “Daffodils” and other verses.
And then we were taken through the tiny rooms of Dove Cottage itself, to see the simple domestic furnishings and possessions of this quite small building, at the same time appreciating the fact that here Wordsworth and his family entertained people such as Robert Southey and Coleridge and Thomas DeQuincy, and penned those lines about wandering “lonely as a cloud”.
We visited the village church of St Oswald’s where the Wordsworth family are buried in the family plot, then drove again by the waters of Grasmere and Thurlmere, half hidden by squalls of misty rain, crossing mossy stone bridges with steep mountains rearing up to touch the darkening rain clouds. How could anyone not be inspired?
Tonight we enjoyed roasted partridge at the King’s Arms, with a bottle of South Australian chardonnay.
An unforgettable day!
Wednesday July 9th
It’s been another long and memorable day which we began early because had to leave Tock How Farm and head up to Scotland where we had arranged to stay with our friends Ros and John in the Scottish border country.
But before that we drove across to the village of Near Sawrey . There is a village called Sawrey, and another called Far Sawrey, but this was Near Sawrey, or rather near Near Sawrey. Anyway it was only a few miles of winding country lane away from Hawkshead and equally pretty. Our reason for this visit was to see the house called Hill Top, the first house bought by Beatrix Potter and the one in which she wrote many of her “little books”. It is a typical stone house of the region with a vegetable garden and an orchard, and surrounded by English flowers and shrubs. But what makes it especially charming is that if you look at the pictures in her books, Peter Rabbit, Jemima Puddleduck etc, you can immediately recognise parts of the house, the garden (Mr Macgregor’s garden of course) and many of the streets and houses around about.
As I said earlier, Beatrix Potter lived here for nine years and even after she was married and moved to another place nearby, she maintained Hill Top as her favourite work spot. And since her death it has been kept as she kept it, by the National Trust.
We spent an hour or so enjoying all this before we had to drag ourselves away and head further north.
That drive was unforgettable. We passed through the rather busy town of Ambleside and then began a long climb up into the fells and passes which had to be navigated before descending towards more rivers and lakes. For miles we saw barely another soul, save grazing sheep and a few of those hairy highland cattle we associate with this part of the world. And miles and miles of stone walls that seemed to snake across the landscape from horizon to horizon, holding back desolate vistas of slate and splintered rock. Then down again into greener fields and woodland girdling long stretches of mirror like water. The largest of these lakes was Ullswater, where Wordsworth first encountered those “hosts of golden daffodils”. There were none there today but that placid stretch of water, edged with reeds and overhanging trees was stunning nonetheless.
The only thing that broke the spell of this place was the sudden appearance of two RAF fighter jets which screamed across the water at about 500 feet, and then were gone again. I thought perhaps they were practising for another Dam busters’ raid.
We lunched on chicken sandwiches at a nearby pub, then continued on our way, finally crossing the Scottish border late in the afternoon. We reached the town of Jedburgh (like Edinburgh) where another unexpected event awaited us. Apparently it was Jedburgh Festival time and the traditional “riding the boundaries” was about to get under way. This involved anybody and everybody who could ride a horse, turning out in their finery and riding around the outskirts of the town. We stood with several hundred locals on a bridge, waiting for about three hundred assorted riders to appear. Then there was a long blast of a hunting horn and two men in full riding pinks, but with Scottish bonnets and fluttering tartan ribbons appeared, and behind them all the rest. Amid lots of cheering, they all cantered their horses and ponies down to the river’s edge, then straight across and up the opposite bank. It was quite a sight. Not exactly the charge of the Light Brigade, but dramatic nevertheless.
For us then, it was on to the town of Kelso where we stopped for dinner in yet another local pub, then the final few miles to Ros and John’s farm and gratefully to bed.
Thursday July 10th
We slept late today, after yesterday’s drive. Our slumbers were aided by a couple of “drams” of Tobermorey single malt Scotch which John said would do us good.
Well it did, and so did the country breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, marmalade and coffee that Ros had waiting for us downstairs when we finally appeared.
After breakfast John took us on a tour of the farm, accompanied by three beautiful dogs, two Labradors and a golden retriever. We climbed into the cabins of mind blowingly complex machinery, combine harvesters and potato planters, all equipped with an array of state of the art controls, including satellite navigation to ensure straight lines of potatoes plants and so on. John started some of these machines up to explain the control panels, and we sat in wonder, too afraid to actually touch anything in case we caused a mechanical disaster. I could see the headlines. “Local Farm Destroyed By Rogue Harvester”.
We drove into the town of Kelso while Ros did some shopping and Barbara and I visited the ruins of Kelso Abbey. It was founded in 1128 but over the centuries it has been pretty knocked about in various wars with the English among others.
This being the county of Roxburghshire, after lunch John and Ros took us to Floors Castle, the seat of the Dukes of Roxburghe. This elaborately ornamented building is set in magnificent parkland. It was built for the first Duke of Roxburgh in 1721. There is one central building with two vast wings, one on either side and has been extensively remodelled by succeeding dukes. Inside are huge salons, dining rooms, a ballroom and many other rooms with magnificent Belgian tapestries and great portraits adorning the walls. On every table and mantelpiece and in glass cases there is silverware, oriental porcelain and Meissen chinaware.
The current duke, the tenth still lives there with his family, and is a quite successful racehorse breeder.
Later in the afternoon we returned to the Aitchison family seat to get ready for dinner. The evening passed all too quickly in great company with Ros and John’s friends, Sheila and Doug (pron Doog) and Jennifer and Robin. Champagne and wine flowed, the dinner was wonderful and the laughter and chat around the table nonstop. And of course it ended with nightcaps of single malt.
Bed!
Friday July 11th
This was our last day with our friends Ros and John, so we spent it exploring some of the Border Country together. We drove up into the hills to look at some beautiful views across the countryside, and down to the River Tweed. There’d been quite a bit of rain the past few days and river was well up and flowing fast. On a distant hill we could see one of the great stone border keeps or watchtowers that the Scots once used to keep an eye out for attacking English forces.
We came to the town of Melrose, a typical Scottish town of single and double storey grey terraces and shops, not to mention some very nice hotels. We spent quite some time visiting Melrose Abbey, a beautiful example of early monastic life in Scotland. The first abbey was founded as far back as 650 AD by St Aiden, but that was burned down and a second abbey was established in 1136. Although most of the walls and roof have gone, you can still see parts of the huge vaulted ceiling and the tracery and stonework on the tall sanctuary windows. You look at the flying buttresses and the arches and wonder how these men so many centuries ago were able to produce such structures.
We lunched at a very nice hotel in Melrose town and experienced a “Cullen skink”. This is not, as I first thought, something made from a lizard, but a delicious Scottish soup made with cream and smoked haddock, potato and onion. If I had known how substantial it would be I would have skipped the main course and gone straight on to coffee. Anyway I now have the recipe and I’ll have a crack at it when we get home.
Our final visit was to a place called Abbotsford. This was the home of one of Scotland’s greatest literary giants, Sir Walter Scott. Apparently Scott was a lawyer as well as a poet and never gave up his profession despite his success with his poetry. As well he created the first historical novels, among them Ivanhoe and many more. He made enough money to buy this run down old farmhouse and turn it into a modest, but nonetheless impressive house with large oak panelled walls and a library of over seven thousand books. His desk and many of his belongings are still there today. Scott was an almost obsessive collector of “things”. We saw breastplates from soldiers killed at Waterloo, a lock of Admiral Nelson’s hair, a document case belonging to Napoleon, a lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair, and an incredible array of broadswords and suits of armour.
By this time we were getting pretty tired so we drove back to Ros and John’s for a quiet dinner. The sun was going down and we sat outside for a while drinking Pimms and nibbling on biscuits and dips.
Barbara and I had to leave in the morning and John was playing golf, so we actually got to bed before midnight, though only just.
Saturday July 12th
After another hearty breakfast, including bacon and guinea fowl eggs, (God we are going to have to get back to the gym soon) we headed off to drive north and west into the Highlands, skirting around Edinburgh and Dundee and up into more mountainous country. Along the way we drove through a leafy stretch of forest to Glamis Castle, once the home of the late Queen Mother when she was Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon. This castle, though not bit as castles go, looks like something out of a fairytale, with its towers and turrets and battlements. It is the family seat of the earls of Strathmore and Kinghorne, their family name being originally Lyon. As a consequence, our guide explained, you’ll find representations of lions in every room in the castle; all except the chapel.
The place is also said to be haunted by the ghost of a lady of the Douglas clan. The king of the day, one of the James’ hated the Douglas’ and burned her to death as a witch. She is said to appear sitting in a chair in the chapel, quietly saying her prayers.
Barbara was particularly interested in Glamis because if you know your Shakespeare, you’ll know he wrote of Macbeth, “Glamis thou art, and Cawdor and shalt be....”, and there is a dark stone vaulted room in the castle called Duncan’s Hall. Beneath its flagstones is said to be the blood of Duncan, slain by Macbeth, Thane of Glamis.
This was all very impressive, but utter rubbish according to our guide. For one this Duncan died in a battle elsewhere. Macbeth was never Thane of Glamis, because there was no such title in those days, and the room itself wasn’t built until well after the death of Duncan.
Ah well, as we ex journos say: “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.”
And let’s face it, Shakespeare could tell a pretty good story.
From Glamis we drove another sixty miles or so, right up to the Highlands proper, through some pretty wild passes with patches of snow still showing white on the tops of bare hill tops.
At the highest point, about 900 metres above sea level the forests of conifers gave way to miles of windblown heather and bare rock. Then down into the valleys again and alongside a series of lochs to the town of Spean Bridge, where we found a B and B and stopped for the night.
Sunday July 13th
Today we have been travelling the Road to the Isles as we set off from our guest house at Spean Bridge to head further north through wild and spectacular country through Glen Spean following the heather lined banks of Loch Lochie and part of Loch Ness, then swinging west by Loch Gleniston and Loch Cluanie and Loch Duich and more. Each stretch of water with its spectacular mountains coming down to its shores, more awe inspiring than the last. The forests of birch and fir and pine crowded in ranks to the water’s edge. Then as we rounded a bend in the road we saw the towers and battlements of a castle jutting out onto the waters of Loch Duich. This was Eilean Donnan (pron Ellen Donan) and there’s been a castle here since the twelfth century. Much of the present building was restored by the McLeod family who currently lay claim to it, although it has been blown up, and set ablaze many times over the centuries, and laid siege to by Jacobites and supporters of the Bonnie Prince alike. On the seaward side you can see a wide expanse of water which gave access to Vikings and Norse raiders, and from the land there is a narrow stone bridge which could be blocked by an enormous portcullis.
If you’ve ever seen the film “Highlander” you’d recognise this as the setting for many of the scenes.
We left the castle and pushed onto a town called Kyle of Lochalsh which where you take the bridge across to the Isle of Skye.
For the next several hours we drove along the most beautiful rugged coastline, heading up the east side of the island, and stopping every ten minutes or so to admire the magnificent country which met us at every turn. On our left, towering treeless mountains sweeping down to the cliff tops, with jagged peaks jutting into the clouds scudding across the sky. The slopes were green and pink with heather, sometimes dark as lead grey clouds came down, and sometimes brighter green as the sun broke through to dapple them.
On our right we encountered wide sweeping bays dotted with blue grey islands and in the distance those mountain glens of the mainland. All along the coast we would see whitewashed houses and cottages looking out to sea, each one clinging to the cliff tops, many of them with precipitous drops to the sea 200 feet below.
We stopped driving late in the afternoon and took a room in a hotel at a place called Flodigarry, a beautiful old grey stone building with tartan carpets and antlered deer heads adorning the walls.
We are told that Flora MacDonald once lived next door. She’s the heroine who helped Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to France.
Our room looks out over the sea with more of those whitewashed cottages just below us. Right now the wind is blowing and the sky is overcast. The sea is grey with white caps and I’m expecting Bonnie Prince Charlie to come sailing around the headland at any moment.
If he doesn’t show up, then we’ll drink his health in good single malt anyway.
Monday July 14th
Well Charlie didn’t show up but we did take a wee dram of scotch which this lovely old hotel provides as complimentary. So after a good night’s sleep we were woken up at around 8.30 by the sound of bagpipes. It’s another little feature of the hotel to have a piper to walk the grounds each morning. A sort of Highland alarm clock!
After a delicious breakfast of porridge, bacon and eggs and toast and marmalade, all accompanied by a panoramic view of the bay outside, we got on the road again. We drove along winding narrow roads even further north, with mist coming down from the mountains on our left. Driving here requires of a lot of attention as you have to be ready to pull into a passing place to allow another car room from the opposite direction. Plus there are sheep and occasionally Highland cattle grazing along the way. Our first stop was to inspect a group of thatched stone cottages, a museum which recreates the life of the crofters who farmed this region. Judging from the tiny rooms and photographs taken back in the early nineteen hundreds, life must have been pretty frugal, but it obviously produced a very hardy race of people. Then we stopped for coffee at a seaside village called Uig from where one of the ferry services to the mainland operates before continuing along the coast heading south now, down the western coast of the island. Sometimes the mist would clear and the sun would give the grey sea a bit of a sparkle. Then we turned inland until we found an even narrower road leading back down to the coast and a village called Stein. It consisted of a row of about fifteen whitewashed houses, a restaurant and a lovely old pub.
All this was literally a few yards from the beach and then a stretch of water called Ardmore Bay, and steep cliffs on the other side. We decided to have lunch in this cosy pub, where the atmosphere was friendly and buzzing with chat. We sat by a window looking out at that fabulous view, and tucking into bowls of French onion soup and crunchy fresh bread.
Our last visit for the day was a little further south to Dunvegan. This is the setting for the 800 year old Dunvegan Castle, the stronghold of the chiefs of the MacLeod clan. The current chief of Clan MacLeod is Hugh MacLeod, the thirtieth in the line. The castle is in pretty good nick considering its age, and its towers look out on the waters of Loch Dunvegan. It is surrounded by well tended gardens with waterfalls and a stream, and we even found a few gum trees amongst the rhododendrons. Inside there are pictures of just about every MacLeod who was anybody over the centuries, many of them in uniform in far flung parts of the British Empire. Mind you MacLeods have also been involved in revolts against English monarchs at times, not to mention other clans.
As well there was a grim looking dungeon from whence the groans of a prisoner emanated; just sound effects of course, but scary nevertheless.
You wouldn’t call Dunvegan Castle a treasure house of silver and gold plate and great art. It is no Blenheim Palace, rather a museum preserving the history of the MacLeod clan and its members from all over the world.
Leaving Dunvegan we drove on for a few more miles before checking into a small hotel at the far end of a small and misty loch.
Dinner was spicy parsnip soup, salmon and dessert. Have you ever heard of a Clootie dumpling? It’s a kind of Christmas pudding only a bit lighter. It is served hot and swimming in cream. I had it for dessert. It is delicious but very filling and now I’m going to bed.
Tuesday July 15th
We both slept very well last night and after a good breakfast set off to explore a little more of this beautiful island. The sky was actually blue for a while, then the wind sprang up and great squalls of fine rain descended. None of this bothers us. It makes the countryside all the wilder and more magnificent. We had the road to ourselves for a while too.
We stopped early in the piece to look at a spot called Dun Beag. This meant parking the car and scrambling up a wet and rocky slope for a few hundred metres under the watchful eye of several sheep.
But when we reached the top we stepped back to pre history. Dun Beag is an Iron Age broch or fort. It is basically a circular stone wall from where the early inhabitants (that’s iron age inhabitants) could defend themselves from raiders. Only the wall and the steps leading inside remain now, but looking out across miles of open heath, to the loch below, you could see what a marvellous vantage point this would be.
The rest of our day was spent retracing our steps past wind whipped lochs and forests and open heath with the rain blotting out the view every ten minutes or so. The locals keep telling us that this rotten weather is unusual, but we just love it. As we headed back over the bridge to the mainland, we felt we had been really privileged to visit such a wonderful place.
We stopped for lunch at a place called Invergarry where we enjoyed a lunch of (wait for it) haggis, tatties and bashed neeps. Neeps are parsnips (bashed or mashed) and the rest you can work out for yourselves. From there we drove another thirty miles or so to Fort William and checked into a B&B for the night. Our room is high over the town and looks out over another loch, Loch Linnhe.
During this trip Barbara and I have sampled single malt whisky and eaten haggis, neeps, taties, Stornaway black pudding, venison pie, partridge, duck, guinea fowl eggs, Cullen skink, Clooty dumpling, and raspberry Cranach and of course porridge. Tonight we’re going to a local restaurant to lash out on Minestrone and Caesar salad.
Then tomorrow we head for the border again, aiming to be home by Thursday.
Wednesday July 16th
We were up at 7.15 and down for breakfast at 8am. Our landlady, though pleasant enough had a touch of the military about her and we reckoned when she said breakfast at eight, she meant breakfast at eight. But the meal itself was great as usual, although we had to limit it a bit. We’ve been eating far too much on this trip, so we tried to avoid the cooked breakfast and confined ourselves to fruit and toast etc.
Then we headed off again, south through the glens and open heath towards the border. There were two highlights on this drive. The first was travelling through the majestic pass of Glencoe. We drove along a winding road, through mist and rain, past rushing streams of white water, and on either side, rearing up into the leaden sky, the bare and rocky slopes of Glencoe.
The scene was made all the more dramatic because it is the place where a massacre occurred 317 years ago. The victims in this case, were all members of the Clan MacDonald, including their chief.
Because this chief, a former supporter of King James, had been prevented from swearing allegiance to King William the third, the king ordered his forces to “fall upon the rebels, the MacDonalds of Glencoe and put all to the sword under seventy.” The order was carried out by members of the Campbell clan, and the snow covered slopes of Glencoe was soaked with the blood of MacDonald men, women and children. The memories of these events still run deep between the two clans. This is indeed a grim and awesome place.
So, on we drove until we reached softer more green and gentle country, along the banks of Loch Lomond. This long stretch of dark water was made the more beautiful when occasionally the sun would break through, and make the loch dance and sparkle. This loch was up to a mile in width in places, with small islands and little inlets with boats and the lawns of posh hotels lining the banks. At its very end there is a sort of theme park, and shopping complex which brought us totally down to earth, and our thoughts turned towards getting home. We travelled for the rest of the afternoon along the M6 motorway, counting off the miles until we decided it was time to stop for the night.
By this time we had skilfully woven our way around Glasgow, (a thing not easily achieved given the tangle of motorway lanes and signs to follow. Thank God for the satnav!) and crossed the border into England. We found a tiny B and B called The Mousehole in a place called Cotton, near Stoke on Trent. Our room was a comfortable attic with beams that were at least three hundred years old.
We walked to a pub half an hour away along a country lane, nodding sociably to grazing cows and sheep along the way. We chose to walk because we were badly in need of exercise.
The pub meal was cheap and filling. Then we set off back to The Mousehole and surprise surprise, it rained!
We got back a bit damp but refreshed and then I realised that my camera, (the one I bought here to replace my worn out one) was missing.
I checked the car and all our bags. No camera! So we went to bed with me thinking I must have left it in a motorway coffee stop.
Thursday July 17th
This morning, after one last country breakfast we packed up, with me checking everything again before deciding that the camera was gone for good. A not very happy start to the day! I searched the car again, but no sign of it. That’s it. The camera’s gone. I’ve lost a lot of photos with it, and I’d have to go through all the business of claiming on insurance, and get yet another camera if we wanted to photograph our future travels. Bugger bugger bugger!
I was backing the car out onto the road for home, when Barbara told me to stop for a moment. She reached into the glove compartment and dragged out the missing camera. Now I had checked the glove compartment several times. I swear I checked closely. And yet I missed it! I don’t know how. I only know that I am now going to be reminded of the fact for the rest of my life, along with little comments about not having the skills to wipe my own nose, or write my own name.
I don’t care right now. The last three hours of our journey was uneventful and we arrived home just after midday.
For the moment, end of story!

DINNER AT CLARIDGES

We’ve just returned home after our posh nosh night in London, and what a fabulous evening it was.
Top hatted concierges, black tied waiters, photos of famous Claridges’ patrons such as the Duke of Windsor and Winston Churchill.
And now Barbara and I!!
We met up with Fritha and Anthony in Claridges’ bar. The place is just too elegant to be true. The moment we walked in the door, we were welcomed by an immaculately clad young man gliding across inch thick carpet. He quickly found us a table and called the drink waitress. We ordered champers and that came with a range of beautifully presented nibbles. Then when it was time, we were conducted to our table in the dining room, all crisp white table clothes and subdued lighting. The service was perfect. You were hardly aware of the waiters until you finished one dish and suddenly you’d notice the plate had been removed. The wine waiter really knew his stuff and chose wines ideal for our choices of food. And even though the room was full, the tables were far enough apart to give you a sense of private dining. Between courses, if there were any crumbs on the table, a waiter would produce a brush and whisk them away. This was a six course meal, but with each course quite small so you didn’t feel bloated or over fed.
Over the next two hours we enjoyed:
Cold consomme of tomato and chopped peppers and basil
Ballottine of foie gras marinated in white port, pear and saffron chutney, with a toasted brioche
Ravioli of Dorset blue lobster and salmon, with basil dressing

A main course of perfectly cooked Chateaubriand in a peppery crust with asparagus

A pre dessert of French and English cheeses chosen from a trolley /or strawberries, raspberries and something creamy

And finally Valrhona chocolate and honeycomb fondant, with an orange yoghurt sorbet .

All of this accompanied with champagne, a good pinot noir and with dessert, a not too sweet chenin blanc. They even presented me with a tiny little muffin with a lit candle and “Happy Birthday” spelled out in chocolate.

If this is what Gordon Ramsay does in all his restaurants, then he can drop the F word as often as he likes. It was the most delightful meal I think I have ever enjoyed, and the others all agreed.
When it was at last time to leave, we walked into the street just as a dark colored Ferrari was pulling up, and out came the great chef himself. We didn’t get a chance to tell him how we had enjoyed the meal, but it was something of a buzz to have him arrive as we were leaving.

We slept late on Saturday morning, before taking the tube to Knightsbridge. We wanted to take a look at Harrods, the famous department store, now owned by Mohammed al Fayed. There was a sale on and the place was packed. There were thousand pound sports jackets knocked down for a mere five hundred pounds. What bargains!!!!
And then there were the tacky memorials to Dodi and Diane. The picture speaks for itself.
We’ll be taking it easy tomorrow (Sunday) before heading off to the Lakes District and Scotland.

DORCHESTER-ON-THAMES

Thank the Lord for Valium and the National Health Service. My back is much better and we went exploring again yesterday. We drove fifty miles into the Thames Valley to a charming little village called Dorchester on Thames. This village is one of those ancient old places with a winding main street and lots of very old cottages with walls that threaten to tumble into the streets. Even the local Co-Op supermarket has ceilings just inches over your head and a doorway that you have to duck your head to get through. The place was once an important Roman centre and grew up around an ancient abbey when this was part of the old region of Wessex. The Anglo Saxon bishop St Birinus, died here in 634AD. The age and history of these places still blows me away. We spent some time in the Abbey church, looking at the tombs of medieval knights and abbots, before enjoying a delightful afternoon tea in the abbey tea rooms. We joined a lot of other visitors around a big table laden with cakes and scones, cream and jam provided by the church ladies. Very English and very quaint!
Tomorrow we are off to London for my birthday dinner. At Claridges would you believe!

TRIPS AND VISITORS

Since last writing we’ve been quite busy planning the next couple of months and trying to fit everything into our remaining three months. It seems like a long time but time just seems to ruch by.
Having recovered from our wonderful visit to Budapest we decided to take it easy for a bit. We managed only one day trip to a place called Berrington Hall, yet another old stately home, this time in Herefordshire. This is an eighteenth century pile in a dark red stone and surrounded by the obligatory “Capability Brown” parkland and lake. The place was interesting enough for its beautifully decorated ceilings and paintings, but frankly you can get a bit jaded about these buildings. Nevertheless it was a very pretty drive in the countryside, which is looking very English with every village showing off its gardens and its rose covered cottages.
A day or so later we were visited by Barbara’s cousin Judy and husband Brian who were spending some weeks in the UK and France. We had a great time catching up and we took them down to the classic Cotswolds village of Lower Slaughter where we enjoyed traditional cream teas with jam and scones.
They stayed overnight and we took them to Blenheim Palace. By this time I had developed a bad back for no reason at all. It was some sort of spasm and it made walking around a bit difficult.
On the morning Judy and Brian left, we had a visit from two friends from Scotland, Ros and John, with whom we are going to stay when we visit Scotland next week. It was wonderful to see them, even if just for a coffee. Then they headed off and we drove Judy and Brian to the station.
Our next call was up the motorway to see friends of our son Paul and his wife Katy. They are Katrina and Brendan and their children Molly and Jilly and they live in Penn near Beaconsfield not far from High Wickham. Despite my back pain, we enjoyed a great dinner and spent the next morning visiting their daughter’s riding school before gathering for lunch in England’s oldest free alehouse. Called the Royal Standard of England, it has been there in one form or another since before the Romans. There we were joined by an old friend of Paul’s, Terry and his partner Helen. So there was a lot of talk of old times and one or two pints of ale besides.
Back home again we enjoyed Sunday roast beef and Yorkshire pud at our local pub with Fritha and Anthony.
I finally got to the doctor’s yesterday and am now happily relaxing under the influence of Valium. I am feeling much better and looking forward to a posh dinner next Friday. It’s my 69th birthday and the kids are taking us to Claridges. Can’t wait!!