The old kitchen is in the skip, and the new one is in boxes all over the place, the new range cooker (with seven burners) is lurking enticingly in its box, after being hauled in by a mighty man. It weighs nearly 200kg, and I think he was just glad he didn’t have to climb four floors in a flat in Edinburgh. I shall have to produce some banquets to justify it. In the meantime, it has been quite satisfying producing meals in the microwave and making do with a few mugs, a couple of plates and one teaspoon. Makes you wonder what the new kitchen is all about!

Also, spending more time in the ‘crow’s nest’ room, with its panoramic view of the sea, has been amazing. On Saturday bottle n0sed dolphins caroused just below the garden wall and were there all afternoon, in no hurry to leave. A glossy seal kept popping up as well. There must have been an abundance of fish. We must buy some bait and try our hands at casting a line or two.

Up in this room are the bookcases. While I am kneeling on the floor, preparing tea for the workers I scan the titles, and remember the interest, or the passion that spurned me on to purchase a particular book. There are books of poetry, history and art. There are the travel books, the churches of San Gimignano, the temples of Ankor Wat, and a wonderful book about creating potions from hedgerow plants. It is all so diverse, and I remember making a quilt in Doha of a bookcase and trying to choose which books I would choose to put on my stitched shelves.

I tossed about worrying, because they had to represent me, what I liked, and which book should be chosen above another. Now, looking at the real thing, I see a collection of years in front of me. My teenage self devouring the pages of ‘Hold my Hand I’m Dying’ by John Gordon Davis, a book I read about four times about the last days of Rhodesia. I see Claire de Lune, the biography of Claude Debussy and I am immediately back in the library at school with Lyn, both of us a little in love with the dead French composer and his beguiling mistress, Gaby. There are all the recent authors that I cannot bear to throw away, the Ann Tylers, the Rose Tremains and Carol Shields. And A.S Byatt’s Possession had a grip on me for some reason. There are books of dream interpretations, Ibsen plays, how to care for Siamese cats and Afghan hounds. There are Vasari’s notes on the Florentine artists, Montaigne’s essays, and the the novels of Herman Wouk. And a whole shelf of Scottish novels, Lewis Grassic Gibbon’s trilogy and of course The House with the Green Shutters.

I suppose someone could surmise that I am a dramatic romantic. True, and the books reflect all of that. It is sad that now books are less obvious in houses. It could be a matter of space.  My two daughters have shelves full of their passions and interests, yet my son who reads avidly is happy to just pass a book on. We are all different. Happily, there still seems to be a passion for book groups, where people sit about and discuss and criticise and learn from each other. ‘Have you read this? Oh you must, I really enjoyed it’. And it is a good way to meet people, and bond.

I did attend a Newstead lunch, meeting some ‘girls’ that I hadn’t seen for about twenty years. It was all very pleasant, and I came away feeling as though I had been in a time warp. The conversation was peppered with words like Djubuti, Abadan, Lagos, Kaduna, Sudan, Malaya, India, Penang and Hong Kong. Memories of golf and country clubs of another era were shared, when it was safer to live in these places.  I remembered school days, running up the drive at lunch times to see if there were any letters for me. The letter board was stuffed with airmails from across the globe, and we soon got to recognise the various stamps. We thought nothing of it.

Meanwhile John and I are pursuing our walking career. On Sunday we walked from Kinghorn to Buckhaven, passed Kirkcaldy and followed the wiggly coastal path past Dysart’s pretty harbour.

Saw a special boat, that made me think of a certain little lady!

We marched on past West and East Wemyss which gets the name from the Gaelic, ‘caves.’ There are quite a group of caverns scattered along the coast, and some contain an archaeological treasure house of carvings spanning the ages from 2-3000BC to the Pictish 8^th century. I am only quoting this as Health and Safety don’t let you in. I imagine in the past, generations of children had a ball enacting Enid Blyton adventures behind the waterfalls of creepers.

We trudged along past winter aconites,

and nodding daffs, the sea had families of Eider ducks and cormorants and it was so warm we were in T shirts.

It was good to walk. We gave up in Buckhaven as a bus was coming, and by that stage we had had enough. We had done 22kms, so that was quite commendable. Next stage will be from Lower Largo to St Monans.

John has started laying the turf on the ground he has cleared of gravel. What a difference.

It looks softer and the plants and roses that we have transplanted from Edinburgh are just burgeoning. Even my beloved trillium is starting to flower.

Our neighbour had an accident in her car. She mistook the accelerator for the break and smashed into the optician’s shop. No one was hurt, although she herself fractured her sternum. It could have been worse. I won’t make a joke about Specsavers!

Pilates is hell. I am balancing on horrid cylinders, raising alternate arms and legs, and reminding myself it is all good for me. My stomach muscles are in permanent agony, which proves I must have abdominals after all.

Having Gerry so close certainly has its benefits, as I was able to do a ‘laundry run’ this week. As the machine did its thing I was able to chat to Darcey who is now extremely interested in everything you say. She really is a sweetheart.

Next week I shall be going to visit Bonnie, and hopefully the garlic will be out and Tasha and I can make some garlic pesto. No doubt this year we will have a helper!