Hundreds of uprooted dandelions in a capacious Brown Bin.Yesterday Benedict Ambrose and I gave into our whims and marched part of the way to what may be the nearest farm shop. It was a glorious sunny day, possibly the warmest day in our part of Scotland so far this year. I wore my French Scouting hat, and hatless B.A. got sunburnt.
I have often said that Edinburgh is so beautiful that, on a warm and sunny day, I never want to be anywhere else. The same can be said for me in the nearby countryside. We passed canola fields the bright colour of American mustard and a ruined 16th century castle that glowed ruddily in the sun. The grain fields were a luscious green, and trees were heavy with blossoms in all shades of yellow, pink and purple. The woods were carpeted with blue florets.
We cut through a noble estate, admiring the flocks of sheep and alpaca, the strutting hens and the water fowl sunning themselves on the grassy shores of an ornamental lake or swimming about. The smallest ducklings seemed to be racing each other on the water; they put on startling bursts of speed, like tiny speedboats. The aristocratic dwelling, elegant Georgian with fantastic Victorian additions, made me wonder if Potsdam, though worth seeing, was worth going to see. (B.A. protested against this architectural heresy, but all the same, if confined to the UK from now on, I would not run out of palaces to see on weekends.)
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