I arrived back in London at 9pm last night, cold, tired and with an incipient head cold, which has since turned into an actual head cold. This morning I found mouse droppings in the kitchen. Shudder.
Peppermint oil and sonic mouse deterrers aside, here’s a quick (read: very long) post about my time at home. At what point, I wonder, does the house you grew up in stop being home? I’m trying not to call it home any more – I left eight years ago, we’ve lived in our flat for four years now, I’m getting married this year for God’s sake – but I still sort of think of it as my real home, even though I left Scotland as soon as I could to move to London.
Anyway, we had a lovely time. The weather obliged by being beautiful, except for Friday, and I might be in the minority here but I enjoyed having the chance to light a fire and snuggle up that day. We did lots. We walked in the hills, we went for tea in Pitlochry, we barbecued, and I read four Miss Marple novels. And on Saturday, we went to the most beautiful bluebell wood I’ve ever seen. It was truly breathtaking. I mean, all bluebell woods are gorgeous, but this was something else.
The next day we went for something totally different and walked up in the hills behind the house. What I love about Perthshire is that, for the most part, it’s the most English part of Scotland – rolling hills, farms and woods, but then two minutes later, you’re in the Highlands and the scenery is wild and rugged.
(That last one might be my favourite.)
And finally, on our last night it was hot enough to sit out and barbecue. Those nights, when the sun lies long across the garden, and all you can hear is the sound of the cuckoo calling (and a pair of pheasants fighting – they hate each other apparently) and the sheep grazing – those nights are really when I realise that I do want to move back to the country some day.
Oh, and finally, I couldn’t not post a photo of this little guy. We met him whilst driving past a Clydesdale stud farm and he was so friendly!