In Angus, we seem to have caught up with winter once more as we enter the
land of my forefathers.
Undeterred by the fact that I can't understand the local accent or fashion
sense, I intend to force Nina to accompany me on a clan history outing tomorrow,
taking in JM Barrie's birthplace in Kirriemuir
(exterior only as it's off season) and Guthrie Castle (now apparently
in the hands of an American & I wasn't consulted).
Starved of true tartan heritage after our Dundee digital sojourn, I've booked
us in to a off-season visit to Glamis Castle (reputedly the most haunted
in Scotland). The downside is that we have go round with a party of school
children, which scares me more, frankly.
And they're French.
Let me think....Le roi, la reine, l'armoire, le chateau, le Piat d'Or.
Nina managed to treat our Metro like a snowplough, and immerse it in
the drive at our extremely and gloriously remote B&B, whilst I skied
to the front door, modem in hand.
It's odd how obsessed one gets with certain things, doing this - food being
almost too obvious to mention (I'm already looking forward to tomorrow morning's
cooked breakfast), but also just finding a place to stay with an obliging
phone socket - an hour or so kneeling on the hall carpet next to a snoozing
dachsund has become the norm, email wise.
Nina's passion is car reorganisation, so much so that even before today's
breakfast, she could be found thrashing around on a Broughty Ferry sidestreet
with the boot contents all over the pavement.