A hit, a veritable hit ...

I kept waiting for someone to say that this morning, as I watched my eldest grandchild (on the right, with the red socks) compete in a fencing competition, but of course no-one was thinking Shakespeare and unbated points. It was fascinating to watch at closer quarters than I have and for longer, to realise the effort and concentration that goes into these short exchanges and the possibility of sudden death, metaphorically speaking. In the corridor outside the hall there were men repairing foils, tightening electric contacts, rescuing equipment in different ways; there were people selling sandwiches and cakes and excellent coffee, all home-made and absurdly cheap. Later the sabre competitors arrived and made threatening advances on one another in corners while waiting for their contests to begin. The air was full of the noise of the scoring electronics and the clash of blades, and full of dust if the state of my eyes was anything to go by.

Outside it was sunny, the sky blue, but the wind was rising. Below us on the hill was the sound of the music from Murrayfield as the spectators for the Calcutta Cup match began arriving, but we had to get home to Dunoon before dark. Vacating our parking spot to an eager rugby fan, we headed off about 2.20pm, leaving still-sunny Edinburgh and driving towards the growing gloom in the west, as the increasing wind buffeted the car on the motorway. By the time we reached Glasgow we'd decided, after a phone call to a friend, not to chance the big rolling sea she could see from her window. We headed for the Erskine Bridge and the road over the Rest and Be Thankful, thanking our stars that the tide was low and the road flooded only with rain rather than sea at Arrochar. It was in fairly sepulchral gloom that we passed the great landslide protection on the hillside just above the road, and stopped at Butterbridge for a quick coffee from a flask before the last, very wet stretch of road home. Standing water was the worst hazard, masking the edge of the road and pushing the car out towards the few oncoming cars.

The fact that I'm writing about it tells its own story: we got home, and the ferries - all of them - went off for a while. Tomorrow will be, we are told, much worse, but we only have to drive up the road. Besides, it's another day ...