Like Woody Allen, I don't really 'do" the countryside.
For one, I really don't have the wardrobe for it or the inclination to clad myself in wool, Goretex and wellies.
So when invited up north the best I could rustle up was a Max Mara coat in an autumnal shade and my ancient flares. Boy are they headed for the bin today, it's troublesome trying to walk with all those flapping sails of fabric. I felt like a fly trapped in a bowl of sticky toffee pudding. Oh, for an excellent recipe go here.
Ah the sweet joy and Nureyevian nimbleness that comes from slipping into a pair of skinny jeans.
I went meandering, not walking, you all know me by now, the meander is a convoluted path with a firm destination in mind.
The cottage was enfolded in trees and a river in spate.
Each night I dosed off to a watery lullaby.
I thought I had been most parsimonious and only had one, oh but here's the evidence to the contrary.
That's a whisky being poured over my haggis and neeps.
And this is Cranachan, made from double cream, oats, raspberries and er whisky.
Resistance is futile, in Scotland we will ensure that you wind up tipsy and get your oats three times a day.