I have been feeling a little like an Edwardian Gentlewoman these last few weeks. My friend Marion recommended me to buy The Landscape magazine. It is issued just four times a year, and in it you can learn about walks, events, recipes, customs and all sorts of delights. I have come a long way from Jackie, then Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire and latterly Good Housekeeping. All suited the mood at the time, but now I like learning how to make elderflower cordial from the flowers I harvested on a sunny day, and making tea after lopping the heads of nettles. Yesterday, thanks to an article in the latest edition, John and I drove north to Edzell in the county of Angus. We had a mission to visit Edzell Castle; we came across it easily, the red sandstone ruins stood out from the gentle undulating farmland surrounding it.

We walked down by the beech hedges, passed a glorious copper beech in all its solitary splendour and came into the most beautiful garden.

Sir David Lindsay created this work of art in 1604, just a year after Elizabeth died. He was obviously a renaissance man, for the four walls of the garden are adorned with carved panels all depicting learning. Liberal arts, planetary deities, cardinal virtues. I snapped just a few. I presume that a quiet walk around the intricate design would help to focus the mind on higher things.

We climbed up and viewed the garden as Sir David would have seen it as he arose each morning. Beautiful symmetry, chequered wall boxes cascading with lobelia. Roses, bees, fresh cut grass. It was sublime.

We then walked to the Gannochy Bridge and through a small blue door. We came upon a path that follows the North Esk River.

Here we entered a fairy forest of beech and birch, bird song and multiple rock types, including sandstone, volcanic rock and granite.

Humans are dwarfed, mere specks, and we kept carefully to the path where signs marked the places to watch the salmon leap. The pools of water were dark and brown, the waterfalls rushing and the sheer drops were not for the faint-hearted. We finally came out of the trees as the path curved under the cliffs towards the Rocks of Solitude. The river is almost soundless. It was wild and silent.

We walked back, lost in our own thoughts, mine of a long forgotten poem that seemed quite apt:

Where the pools are bright and deep,

Where the grey trout lies asleep,

Up the river and over the lea,

That’s the way for Billy and me.

 Were the the blackbird sings the latest,

Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest …

 By James Hogg

We left the wild untamed river Esk, and the town with its atmospheric ruined castle, and called in to visit my mother in Forfar. She was alert and happy to see us, but her eye was on Wimbledon and she gave us all the updates. At 93 she has her finger on the pulse. I mentioned where we had been. ‘Oh yes. That would have been nice, but did you know that Andy Murray is to be a father again?’

I am just back from a visit to Wales. I did mention to Natasha that I had read in ‘my’ magazine about ‘nature’s pavements’ and how there was a very good example of this distinctive limestone pavement in the Vale of Glamorgan. ‘Could we go?’

Well, I was barely out of the airport, and just had time to kiss Bonnie and baby Hazel, before Leo had us motoring off to Nash Point. We walked in total over six miles, passing the lighthouse, through woods, and finally down on to the Jurassic coastline. It was amazing.

The next day we went mushroom foraging, with an app on Leo’s phone to help us identify the various species. Having a mission does keep everyone interested, and we found the possible ingredients for a risotto. Bonnie was much more interested in dragons’ caves and hobbits’ huts, but we all breathed in the air, and it was just so nice to be out in the soft Welsh woods. The mushrooms that we gathered turned out to be seething in maggots!

I did lots of Edwardian granny stuff, that probably hasn’t changed for hundreds of years. We read stories, sang songs and Bonnie would get up in the morning, rush through to her mum, lie beside her until a suitable time before she was to wake Granny. ‘I have laid still for 4 minutes; can I go to Granny now?’ She dutifully bounced in at 6.25, with ‘Let’s play, Granny.’

Hazel is growing like a beautiful little mushroom. Full of smiles and happy to let the world fluctuate around her.

She dutifully lay under a tree whilst Natasha painted the Penarth Pier. I too painted the pier, but I would not say I was quite in the same class! Still it was fun, hot and sunny and I felt such a lady with my oil paints and my rag and the delicious smells of paint and linseed.

John has been the host with the most. First with his two sons, Matt and James, who came up for a long weekend.

Both are mad keen cyclists and are all set to take part in the Etape, the leg of the Tour de France open to amateurs each year. They have to be mighty fit, as needless to say their section is in the Alps. They enjoyed being here, cruising the streets of Edinburgh, and visiting the exhibition of new photographs of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s voyage and journey across Antarctica. I made them a special cake, called the Paris-Brest, a choux pastry delight with Chantilly cream. It was originally made in honour of the Tour de France.

Whilst I was away his two sisters, Libby and Rosie, and Rosie’s partner, Pete, came to visit, so he was the chief tour operator.

From his phone calls I think the main excitement was the launching of the new air force carrier, the Queen Elizabeth, built in Rosyth. When it finally came under the bridges, it was midnight and accompanied by Sea King helicopters and there was a right hullaballoo. He said it was quite a spectacle.

I will see Gerry and Darcey on Thursday. I have been taking Darcey to the village play group, and bonding with the other mums and grannies. So far so good. She likes it best though sitting on the beach, in a tyre, lining up the stones and having her own magical time with the seagulls and terns for company.

I was confused seeing Kris Kristofferson playing at Glastonbury. He was my heart throb and it saddened me to see him singing the old songs in his old voice, cracking. I was quite sad. He is 81. How did that happen?

Our garden may not be mathematically perfect or have plaques to Grammatica, Rhetorica, Arithmetica, Musica or Geometria, but it does have lots of plants with Latin names all growing in profusion, and exuding colour.

Now I am off to make Antonio Carluccio’s signature dish, Penne Giardiniera. It is really penne with spinach balls. Very tasty.

Outside it is raining. I am so pleased. After yesterday and the long walk, I am tired. It is good to stop.

The Rocks of Solitude. How lovely is that?