
PEOPLE DREAM of holidays abroad, and in conversation recently a friend berated our Scottish weather, saying he couldn’t wait to retire to the south of France, or some other part where the sun shines permanently.

‘TAE MEET him ye gang up a stair/ Deil tak’ the ploy that leads me there./ The steps as I ha’e coonted ower/ Cost two pence each or three and fower./ He writes me whiles a wee bit line/ And says he is sincerely mine./ But in a book he’s noted doon/ To writing you say half a croon./ I aften think it wad be braw/ Gin I could do without the law/ But when I’m in a fax I ken/ I’ll climb thae twenty steps again./ Bit ae dull day wi’ grave content/ He’ll read my will and testament/ A’h lad I’ll hae the laugh on ye/ Ye’ll send yer bill bit no tae me.
POOR MOLDYWARP, lying quite dead at the side of the road and so easily mistaken for a lump of earth. It seemed to have been hit a glancing blow by a vehicle – quite enough for such a small animal - for when Inka brought it to me there was just one drop of blood on its snout.

THE DOGS and I – what a pleasure to be able to write these words again – took ourselves up the Brown Caterthun for the evening walk. It’s not ten minutes drive from home and one of those spectacular places where “every prospect pleases and only man is vile” – as the hymnist says.