Statuesque

I ran like a cheetah - well, like a cheetah that smoked too much.

We get up late and decide to take the 12:20 train to Attadale. Meanwhile, we wander around Plockton, a dreamy West Highland seaside tourist village. There are craft shops, galleries, restaurants and pubs. A seal viewing boat trip. A tiny fish and chip shop. A combined visitor centre, historical society, and toilet.

In the end we clamber around the bay on muddy, flowing paths to Duncraig, not Plockton, station. It's a request stop and the train does indeed stop.

Attadale Gardens are beautiful. There are great statues, various bridges, a geodesic dome full of ferns, streams everywhere. There's a DIY tea room with a machine that turns labelled cartridges into mugs of hot liquids that taste almost entirely unlike what you wanted. And trees, trees, trees.

Having exhausted the gardens, we cross the track and lie on the stony expanse by the sea. The platform is a hundred yards away, incongruous.

Ewan and Kath come for dinner. I cook Bombay potatoes, spiced sea bass, with a side of veg and mustard seed. The potatoes are too runny, but otherwise I think it came out ok. We have pecan pie with ice cream from the restaurant next door for pudding.

In the living room, the fire is blazing. There's a hint of smoke, but nothing fatal. I'm on red, Claire's on white, Ewan's on Macewans Export, but Kath is the nominated driver and sensibly sips water. And they have work tomorrow. Comiserations.