A chocolate tour of Edinburgh – the stuff of (sweet) dreams...

The first stop: truffle tasting at Patisserie Valerie...

The past few weeks have involved a lot of writing and editing work (i.e. the remunerative word generation and rearranging that pays bills rather than the more-enjoyable-but-not-remunerative blogging stuff!). However, there have been two culinary highlights squeezed in among all the wordsmithery, and this post is an account of the first...

It all came about as the result of a tip-off from a good friend, who also happens to be a tablet-maker extraordinaire and thus knows her sucrose. Aware of Yours Truly’s proclivity for anything sweet, she forwarded me details of an ‘itison’ deal offering discounted tickets for the tantalisingly titled “Chocolate Tour of Edinburgh”. 

A quick check-up online revealed several positive reviews, so I hastily booked two tickets for an unspecified date in the future, suspecting that DD1 would not require much persuasion to accompany me. Suffice to say, she didn’t.

A mutually suitable date was duly agreed, I booked our places online and one bright, late-September afternoon the two of us rocked up at the French Patisserie Valerie on Rose Street in Edinburgh (there's also a branch on North Bridge), ready for some serious chocolate consumption. There we were greeted by two cheery young ladies – Jules and Maria – who were to be our charming and informative tour guides for the afternoon.

Our group consisted of 10 people: six Chinese visitors (including two adorable little boys, who solemnly and determinedly consumed just as much chocolate as the adults) and four Scots – DD1 and I plus a cheery young local couple (both of whom were traffic wardens, which made for interesting chat along the way!).

Maria and Jules began by advising us to buy a bottle of water to carry with us during the tour (to cleanse our palates between chocolate stops!) and then gave us a brief history of chocolate throughout the world as well as in the UK. I’d been aware that the Mayans first invented hot chocolate in its earliest form, but was interested to learn that the first chocolate bar was made by Joseph Fry in London back in the 18^th century. He it was who introduced factory methods to the production of chocolate.

We tasted our first "exhibit" of the tour from a selection of Patisserie Valerie’s tempting truffles – DD1 opted for a delicate rose champagne truffle while Yours Truly plumped for a more full-bodied white chocolate truffle. Each of us pronounced our choice to be excellent and our anticipation levels for the afternoon to come rose commensurately...

Patisserie Valerie don't just do truffles...

So much temptation in the shop window, but we had to
save ourselves for the chocolate treats yet to come!

I have to confess that being faced with the prospect of gorging chocolate all afternoon, I had mentally psyched myself for copious cocoa bean derivative consumption, so I was initially somewhat taken aback just to be offered one truffle at the first stop on the tour. However, as we progressed, any slight disappointment soon turned to immense gratitude for the prescient prudence of the organisers – it rapidly became evident that pacing oneself was essential on this yummy marathon so this "gentle" start was absolutely the right approach.

Hot chocolate beyond compare...

Next stop on the tour was just a couple of hundred metres’ walk away, at the renowned Hotel Chocolat on Hanover Street. Here we were served a small cup of the richest, most luxurious hot chocolate that I have ever had the pleasure to taste (and that even includes the fabulous chocolate gloop served at Angelina’s in Paris). Yours Truly would happily have drunk a vat of this divine cocoa nectar, but the tour may well have come to a premature end if I had!

Good things come in threes... especially packs of truffles!

White chocolate treats incl. blueberry truffles!

Hotel Chocolat - a dangerous place to browse...

As if this was not gastronomic heaven enough, we were then offered the chance to sample a couple of fabulous truffles, to boot.  I chose blackcurrant cream the first time – and indeed the second time, the first having been so good that I simply couldn't resist another! Somewhat dangerously, we were given five minutes to browse in the shop and make any purchases deemed necessary – true to form, neither DD1 nor I required a second bidding.

DD1 and I smiled at this sign on the pavement...

The third stop on the tour was a just couple of doors further up Hanover Street at Bibi’s Cake Boutique which – our guides advised us – was renowned for its prize-winning chocolate brownies. As soon as we bit into these idyllic chocolate-imbued creations, it was easy to appreciate why their reputation went before them.

Guide Jules begins to build up the brownie hype...

Prize-winning brownies from Bibi's Cake Boutique

Cupcakes are another Bibi's delicacy

And those larger cakes look pretty yummy, too!

Bibi’s counters and shop windows boasted a cornucopia of colourful cupcakes, and it was genuinely hard to tear ourselves away (not to mention stop drooling!). But move on we must, so a brisk 10-minute walk ensued. This brought us to the Coco on Broughton chocolaterie, there to sample cheekily-named Tia Maria truffles known as “Venus nipples” (check out the photo and the derivation of the name will become immediately apparent!). 

Maria gives us the gen about "Coco on Broughton"

Chocolates with a naughty name!

Our fifth stop on the tour involved another five-minute walk followed by an elevator ride to the top floor of Harvey Nichols, where we viewed and tasted the work of The Highland Chocolatier, Iain Burnett. His tiny cubes of pure truffle ganache filling simply melted in the mouth and I found the delicate artwork on his chocolates somehow reminiscent of William Morris designs.

The Highland Chocolatier's counter in Harvey Nichols

The macaroons in Harvey Nicks looked pretty tasty, too!

Walking through Edinburgh was
good fun on a sunny autumn day

Then it was across Princes Street, through Waverley Station, and uphill for a couple of hundred yards to the Royal Mile where we found stop no. 6: The Fudge Kitchen. There we were tempted by almost every flavour of fudge known to man and even allowed to sample several flavours, my personal favourites being “strawberries and cream” and “salt caramel”.  

It has to be said that even the most ardent chocolate fanatics in the group were beginning to fade slightly by this point (and my feet were in need of an ice bath!), but we rose unanimously to the occasion and downed our fair share of delicious fudge! DD1 and I also invested in some sachets of “fudge hot chocolate”, which I’m saving for a particularly dreary November day.

The sign says it all... a kitchen full of FUDGE!

Triple chocolate fudge - don't mind if we do...

Finally, to conclude our ever-so-slightly calorific but utterly terrific tour, we visited a shop that resembled something from a children’s fantasy story penned by the inimitable Roald Dahl himself. Entering Lickety Splits was genuinely like stepping back in time for the oldest member of the group (i.e. Yours Truly). Familiar sweets and treats of my long-distant childhood lined one wall of the shop while the opposite wall was given over to local craft and jewellery, which provided an unusual but attractive complement to the shop’s stock.

A shop window guaranteed to stop
a 50-year-old Scot in her tracks

Sweet dreams: row upon row of traditional confectionery

Effervescent proprietor Naomi gave us an excellent and comprehensive talk on the origins of some of Scotland’s most “traditional” sweets e.g. macaroon bar (I hadn’t been aware just how often coconut features in traditional Scottish sweets – nor that in the past it was wrapped round meat to keep it fresh!).

We were also shown some Irn Bru humbugs, which were Barr’s original product before the advent of the eponymous Irn Bru drink that is so famous nowadays. DD1 and I bought a “quarter” of the said Irn Bru delicacies for Son&Heir as a housewarming present for his new flat, though after we’d tasted them, his chances of ever seeing them rapidly began to dwindle....

Decisions, decisions...

Undoubtedly the most fascinating traditional sweets in the shop – although their overpowering cinnamon content meant they were not to my taste – were the “lucky tatties”. These  flat, rather unpromising-looking brown objects were apparently often carried by miners, as their high energy content meant that a miner could survive three days underground on one of these alone. No wonder they were considered "lucky".

And so our wonderful tour came to an end, as indeed all good things in life must. Both DD1 and I gave the experience a full 10 out of 10, despite the fact that we were a tad footsore by the end. Even if we had paid the full price per ticket (£30), I reckon the tour would still have offered good value for money. The fact that we only paid £14 per head, thanks to the itison deal, made the experience (apologies in advance...) all the sweeter!

Why nothing goes to waste on Swiss farms

Our plum tree, Victoria, has excelled herself this year

Autumn is here with a vengeance and the garden is a’swirl with yellow, red and brown leaves. The greenery in the polytunnel is beginning to abate, the potatoes have almost all been dug, and Vinnie the vine has yielded the risible harvest with which he deigned to bless us this year.

A potato mosaic (variety Rooster)

Could do better - Vinnie Vine's meagre offering

As predicted in my last post, I spent a lot of my time in September picking and peeling plums. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this experience transported me back 31 years to the summer when I was a mere 19-year-old stripling employed on a dairy farm in Switzerland, where one of my responsibilities was the gathering and preparation of fruit from the farm orchard.

The idea of this working holiday had been to improve my German (mistake number one – Swiss German is almost unintelligible even to native German speakers, so I’d basically to learn a new language called “Mundart”) by spending time on a farm, which I thought would be a relatively pleasant way for a farmer’s daughter to spend the month of August (almost mistake number two).

I say “almost mistake”, as overall my Swiss episode was indeed hugely enjoyable – mainly thanks to the wonderful and welcoming family for whom I had the good fortune to be working. However, it has to be said that the experience wasn’t quite what Yours Truly – as the daughter of a Scottish arable farmer – had been expecting...

I think I first perceived that things were different on Swiss farms when I discovered that the entire farm extended to just 15 Hectares (around 40 acres). Having spent most of my life on a farm which (at that time) extended to some 1,800 acres, this was a shock to say the very least.

What’s more, this tiny farm supported not only farmer Hans and his wife Vreni (plus their two young children) but also Grossvater and Grossmutter (Hans’s parents) who still did their bit around the yard, although they were no longer up to some of the heavy work.

And when I say “heavy work”, I am not joking... At home, even thirty years ago, we had mechanical bale-stackers to lift and load bales onto trailers. On the Swiss farm, it soon became evident that the bale-stackers were Vreni and... er, Yours Truly. As I watched Vreni deftly spear a square bale of hay with a pitchfork and swing it up into the air and on to the back of the trailer, my heart sank swiftly.

The heaviest thing I’d probably ever lifted in my life at that point was a curling stone – and they didn’t need to be swung over your shoulder and propelled several feet up into the air at the end of a flimsy fork.

Vreni and Hans tried desperately not to smile as they watched “das schottische Mädchen” attempt the manoeuvre, and eventually came to my aid until I’d got into the hang of it – which I did... after a few days. Indeed when I returned to Scotland, Supergran reckoned that my shoulders were a good couple of inches wider than when I’d left!

For me, undoubtedly the most impressive aspect of the Arnis being able to support a family off so little land was the fact that absolutely NOTHING went to waste.

Everything (by which I mean fruit and veg peelings, rancid milk, meat leftovers, dry bread, etc.) was fed to some incumbent of the farm – be it cows (delightful dreamy dairy cows with huge, gentle eyes), hens, rabbits (gorgeous giant rabbits, which I loved – little realising at that point that they were for eating!), pigs (the enormous boar, Hubert, used to stand up on his hind legs in the sty, with his forelegs on the gate, waiting for his breakfast and squealing loudly) or the slinking farm cats and quick-to-nip-you dogs. Not a scrap of comestibles was wasted.

Much of the fresh produce – predominantly plums, carrots and apples – was frozen, sealed in jars or (in the case of the apples) sent to the local fruit juice plant to be made into “Süssmost”. This was the local name for gorgeous, cloudy apple juice, which returned from the plant in dark green bottles and was stored underground in the farmhouse “Keller” (cellar) to be enjoyed over the following year. 

Peeled plums playing on my mind...

The apples and plums hung plentiful and heavy in the orchard, which consisted of at least a dozen trees (making our one plum and one apple tree here at The Sparrowholding look a tad paltry).

Needless to say, the bountiful fruit harvest meant hours and hours – and indeed days and days – of peeling and slicing apples and plums. So the mere 150 or so plums that I’ve dealt with this autumn pale into complete insignificance compared with my peeling exploits in the summer of 1982. Back then, I was actually dreaming of plums when I shut my eyes and was haunted by visions of rows and rows of plum trees all waving their laden branches at me and shouting “peel me” (sadly, I’m not joking!).

Still, plum trauma notwithstanding, those intense few weeks on the dairy farm proved to be a very happy and fulfilling period of my youth, even though the hallikit* Scottish farm labourer managed to put the spike of a hay rake through her trainer one day and nearly pinned her foot to the ground!

Working alongside Vreni, Hans and the “Grossis” (as the grandparents were affectionately known) was a hugely rewarding experience – not in any financial way, as I think I earned about 90 pounds “pocket money” in total after deductions for my accommodation and keep, but rather because of what I learnt about how hard people can work physically, day after day, and yet still be content with their lot.

It is a period of my life that I will never forget.  I lay in bed each morning and listened to the cows clinking their way (each wore a bell) melodically towards the milking parlour around 5.30 a.m. I tucked voraciously into lunches of homemade bread and fabulous Swiss cheese produced from the milk of those same cows. And I watched, fascinated, as Grossmutter expertly plaited the “Butterzopf” (literally “butter pigtail”) which was the special loaf of slightly sweet bread made every Saturday evening as a treat for Sunday morning breakfast.

I am still in touch with the family – Vreni and I ring each other on our respective birthdays. Days spent in an easy camaraderie working on the land led to a friendship that has endured over 30 years. That friendship and the vivid memories of a very different way of rural life more than compensate for the hours spent peeling plums...

Last, but not least, here are a few autumnal photos which were snapped out and about around The Sparrowholding recently:

Courgettes still growing in the polytunnel

Looking forward to making green tomato chutney!

Runner beans are still growing in the polytunnel

It was National Poetry Day this week,  so
this spade made me think of the late
Seamus Heaney's poem "Digging"

Spot the sunbathing bluebottle! (on the left)

Autumn Crocuses in all their purple glory

Confused.com - this poor lost butterfly was flying round our hall!

We're on the road to nowhere - autumn leaves

Desperate housewife

Rich pickings from the tumble dryer filter...

Not being an avid TV watcher, I’ve never seen the programme “Desperate Housewives”,  and  I suspect from anything I’ve read in the press about the said series that my current plight doesn’t quite register on the same scale as these ladies’ desperation.

However, I am nonetheless a desperate housewife of sorts this afternoon, and the reason for my despair is the health and wellbeing of my long-suffering tumble dryer – not to mention my weary washing machine. Why, you might ask?  Well, just take a look at the photo which I snapped this morning of the muck, stour (*) and metallic objects that had accumulated in my stalwart dryer’s filter.
*stour is a Scottish word meaning "dust"

You could plant potatoes inside the dryer...

Needless to say, I didn’t need to search too far for the culprit in a household that comprises one student (who seems to spend most of the day in bed when he’s not at College or playing hockey, and whose only washing is thus mainly comprised of soaking hockey socks and a motley selection of sweatshirts); one editor (whose  most heinous laundry sins tend to involve red ink stains); and one agricultural worker who gets up close and personal with muck and stour on a daily basis. Yes, no prizes for guessing that HunterGatherer is guilty as charged!

Now, of course, I am extremely grateful that he is considerate enough to put his own working clothes in the washing machine as he sheds them (not least because, in all honesty, I wouldn't want to touch them with a barge pole!). However, it would be even better if he remembered (as he has been asked to do at least six million times during the 23 years of our marriage) to remove all foreign objects from the pockets first...

For some reason, at least five million of those times he has managed to forget this apparently simple request, with the result that reading glasses, penknives, spanners and myriad other intruders regularly sneak into our wash cycles, either to emerge pristine on the other side or to lodge themselves somewhere in innards of the unsuspecting machine. If their presence is not detected in time (loud thumps usually give the spanners away pretty early on...) then they can even make it as far as the tumbler dryer – hence this morning’s “rich pickings” (see photo above).

I have resolved that if, at some future date, I were ever to win the lottery (not that we actually buy tickets, so the chances are pretty slim!), I would not be even remotely tempted by a snazzy Porsche or a three-month world cruise. Instead, I would cast financial caution to the wind and splash out on an industrial-strength washing machine and tumble dryer that could swallow entire toolboxes – and perhaps even the odd sheep – whole, without batting an eyelid.

Still on the subject of things domestic, I’m pleased to report that the culinary offerings at the Sparrowholding have soared in quality and variety this past week following the return of DD1 from her summer internship activities at the legal eagle company. Always a keen cook, she is a breath of fresh air in our kitchen, and in recent days we have breakfasted on oeufs Bénédicte (with the Hollandaise sauce made from first principles, bien sûr...) and dined on chicken and leek pie, fish medley pie, and courgette gratin (with courgettes from the polytunnel).

Courgette gratin - with homegrown courgettes

DD1's purchase in Belgium - fabulous basil oil

Eggs Benedicte - don't mind if we do!

Blueberry Bombe - HunterGatherer's elevenses this week!

HG and DD1 visited relatives on Mull last weekend - and
brought back this gift of delicious cranberry cheese

As I seem to remember writing in a blogpost around this time last year, it’s probably just as well that in 10 days or so, the resident chef will be heading back to Uni, or I’d very likely be resembling the Michelin(-starred) woman by Christmas!

Mention of the “C” word reminds me that the other evening HunterGatherer was poring over the first Christmas catalogue to venture through our letterbox, and he was astounded to note that you can now buy a plastic snowball maker mould. Makes you wonder how on earth we managed to manufacture our icy ammunition in the good old days?!

And suddenly it was September...

The Class of '81 - looking fab at 50!

Good grief: where did the second half of August go?  Personally, I have to confess –  without a soupçon of shame –  that the past two weeks have flown by in a flurry of further birthday feasting! First there was a luscious lunch (courtesy of a very generous friend) at one of my favourite “perches”, The Roost Restaurant in Bridge of Earn. As ever, each of chef Tim Dover’s dishes was perfection on a plate; however, if I had to single out a favourite, it would certainly be the tangy lemon risotto, which I think I could happily dine on every day if I lived to be 100!

Lemon risotto - simply sublime (no pun intended!)

Then just one week later, I was off to the fabulous Crieff Hydro Resort to meet 25 former classmates (including just one brave chap!) for a Class of ’81 reunion buffet lunch to mark the fact that we all turn(ed) 50 in 2013. For many of us, it was the first time in over 30 years that we’d either spoken to or set eyes on each other – and what an action-packed afternoon of collective catching up ensued. 

Years literally fell away as multifarious news was exchanged and myriad memories recalled. The only slight blot on the horizon came four days later when Yours Truly was suddenly smitten by shingles – an experience which I would not wish on an insidious enemy far less 25 good friends! My fingers are still firmly crossed that I didn’t unwittingly pass on any poxy germs during that happy afternoon’s festivities...

The other members of the family have been equally busy, with HunterGatherer wielding his welder at just about anything that crosses his path at the farm (watch out Farmpa!). Meanwhile, the end of August saw the daughterly duo finish their respective holiday employs. DD1 (the French student) has completed a month’s internship with a law company – first in London, then Brussels. During this time she’s tackled everything from researching intricate international mergers and acquisitions to riding a Brussels “Villo” bike in a pencil skirt, which was (in her words) “harder than I thought it would be”.

Music student DD2, fresh from the rigours of managing 50+ fractious foreign teenagers, had applied successfully for a place on a radio/TV presenting workshop at our local station, Tay FM. One of her assignments was to make up (virtually on the spot) a short news report inspired by a single word, and to then present her report to camera. By good luck, DD2 was allocated the word “jewellery”, so she quickly concocted a tale about a new breed of interactive jewellery that hissed at you if you made a bad fashion decision when getting ready for a night out. I reckon the idea could catch on!

No doubt thanks to the unseasonably warm weather in July, 2013 has been a prolific year for most fruit (and veg) in the garden, with blackcurrants being particularly copious. Unfortunately, none of the Sparrowholding incumbents is remotely interested in eating blackcurrants (apart from potentially the sheep – but they were not offered any), so Yours Truly issued a “glut alert” and invited a few local foodie friends to help themselves.

Burgeoning blackcurrants

Within 24 hours, one of our local medicine men plus son popped round to snaffle sufficient berries to flavour a bottle of gin and one of vodka (purely for medicinal purposes, of course!). Another friend (also, by chance, a doctor) converted her pickings into blackcurrant crumble. It was great to know that the berries had gone to two such good homes!

Raspberries plump and ripe...

And ready for the freezer

Second crop of strawbs from the polytunnel

Poor grape pickings - a single bunch from Vinny Vine this year

But at least there are over 40 tomatoes :-)

As the season of mellow fruitfulness progresses, I suspect – judging by the volume of green "eggs" currently weighing down the branches of Victoria our plum tree – that I will soon be eating, breathing and dreaming Prunus domestica ssp. Intermedia. Not that I’m complaining, as fortunately I’m particularly partial to plums.

Plums aplenty waiting to ripen

The potatoes were rather tasty

As was the beetroot!

The next couple of weeks will see this year’s crop of male lambs head off to market, so the dreaded weaning (or “spaining” as it’s known in Scottish farming circles) process will be taking place very soon. As a mother myself, it breaks my heart to hear the ewes and lambs bleating sadly for each other for the first 24 hours. 

Mark you, with Son+Heir having left school in June and currently flat-seeking in Edinburgh, DD1 soon to be heading back to St Something’s College in distant Oxford for the final year of her degree, and DD2 setting off to do an ERASMUS year in the even-more-distant south of France this Saturday, I may also be doing some bleating soon (though I don't expect any of my “lambs” will be bleating for me...).

Looking a bit sheepish - one of this year's lambs

Two birthday cakes down and still celebrating...

My lovely birthday bench (and other pressies!)

So it’s been and gone – the 50^th birthday, I mean – and I’m still upright, although on the actual B-day itself I was laid low by a vile fluey lurgy.  Despite the rattling cough, blinding headache and feeling of being slightly removed from the universe, nothing short of the apocalypse was going to stand in the way of my planned birthday luncheon with Supergran at Scottish restaurant of the year Barley Bree in Muthill (pronounced “Mewe-thill”, not Mut-hill for anyone not familiar with this charming little Perthshire village!).  

Scottish Restaurant of the Year 2013 here we come...

Simple but atmospheric - inside Barley Bree

Spoilt for choice...

Although I was slightly disappointed not to be on top form to appreciate the whole experience, the restaurant certainly didn’t disappoint. The interior has a quaint, traditional ambiance, with a feature stone fireplace in the centre of the main dining area, which I imagine must be a welcome sight for weary travellers on winter days when Perthshire’s weather is doing its worst.

Our hostess, Barley Bree’s co-proprietor Alison, made us feel immediately at home, and we were soon poring over the menu and trying to work out which of the tempting array of dishes to sample.  Supergran opted for a pork starter and Yours Truly’s eye was caught by the soup of the day – which turned out to be a fabulously smooth and savoury chick pea and olive oil delicacy that slipped down even the sorest of throats a treat.

Pressé of Pork Shoulder, Prune Purée, Pickled Blackberry, Nasturtium

Chick Pea and Olive Oil Soup with Feta Cheese

Having grown up on beef-producing farms, my dear ol' mum and I were both quick to select the braised Aberdeen Angus Beef for our main course – Quality Meat Scotland would have been proud of us! Then, casting individuality to the wind once again, we both went for the same dessert option: a delicate, enticingly fragrant lavender crème brûlée, which provided a perfect end to a memorable meal.  Suitably replete, mum and daughter duly headed happily back to our respective abodes.

Braised Aberdeen Angus Beef, Mushroom and Smoked Bacon

Lavender Crème Brûlée

Fortunately, as the week went on Yours Truly gradually perked up, buoyed by flowers from various thoughtful friends and the arrival of a gorgeous Dobbies garden bench paired with a pink and purple Pringle rug – a combined gift from of my three dearest friends, who know my favourite colours! 

Suffice to say that by Saturday evening, I was feeling almost back to normal (whatever normal is once you’re 50...).  This was just as well, as 20 girlfriends were arriving for a belated birthday celebration that night – each bearing a dish for a pot luck supper. So why had I not just whipped up a banquet for my long-suffering friends, you may ask? Well, the sad truth is that (highly ironically for someone who writes a lot about food) I am not very handy in the kitchen - indeed it takes me almost an entire day just to prepare and cook one meal for the five of us on the rare occasions when we’re all at home (and that’s just boiled egg with soldiers!). Fortunately, my lovely chums proved to be far more prodigious when it came to matters culinary, and a veritable feast soon amassed on our kitchen table.

Pot luck supper - the only way ahead
for self-confessed non-cooks!

Birthday Cake No. 1  Beetroot and Chocolate - a "birthday eve"
surprise from the lovely folk at our local creative writing group

Birthday Cake no. 2 - Complete with Chocolate Sheep
courtesy of Celebration Station in Perth

An evening of merriment and memories ensued. Following the example of a (slightly older) friend who had held her 50^th party a couple of years ago, I asked each of the guests to bring with them a memory of something we’d done together or of an occasion that they recalled from our shared past. Some of these incidents had completely slipped my mind – such as my inviting a good friend’s daughter for a sleepover, with the request that she brought her pogo stick (DD1 having a passion for pogo sticks at the time), or the multiple runs that I did to and from school ferrying forgotten objects to forgetful offspring, or my über-eager sideline support during school rugby and hockey matches... Ah, happy days from a chapter of life which (with Son+Heir having left school in June) has now closed.  

Still, the exciting aspect of celebrating 50 years on planet earth in the 21^st century is that there could still be another half century for me to get started on. My now officially ancient legs still managed to get through two 90-minute hockey sessions this week, so prospects are looking good! Better still, the celebrating isn’t quite over yet, as I’ve been invited out by another kind friend for a celebratory birthday lunch at another well-known Perthshire eatery later this week, which means that the most postponed diet in history is just going to have to wait a little longer...

A gift from a friend with a sense of humour!

Fresh flowers galore :-)