To market, to market ...

Back home in the relatively balmy west again, I'm looking back on today and finding it hard to believe that actually we only left Dunoon yesterday. Definitely this is how to prolong life, or at least to have the impression of time expanding - fill it with diverse activities! 

We spent last night in the Premier Inn as being close to the family of the trombonist (Note to self: review for Trip Advisor - we've stayed there so many times, but there was a painful drop in standards of service and the maintenance of the room), but checked out without bothering about breakfast to rejoin the family. Then, leaving the older granddaughter studying Physics, the rest of us headed out. D-in-L was dropped off at the French Consulate to cast her vote; the rest of us went to the entrancing street market in Stockbridge. For us, I only bought a wonderful sourdough loaf, some passion-fruit curd, dried figs and smoked butter; I actually bought some membrillo paste as well and left it behind by mistake, and have a feeling la famille will enjoy it just fine. I spoke French to a French stall-holder and Italian to a delightful Sicilian who was wonderfully encouraging despite my regrettable tendency to lapse into French ...

We then had a dizzying tour around the roadworks while my son showed off his driving skills as we tried to pick up his wife, who was half dead with hypothermia by the time we got to her. I reckon the day of the private car in central Edinburgh is past - I would never dream of trying, country bumpkin that I am. Then lunch, in the new-to-me Pier Bistro at Newhaven Harbour - lovely food, charming service, warm and welcoming environment; I hope they do well. (It used to be a Pizzeria)

Then home, passing once again from the chilly haar at 10ºC to warm sun and 16º in Greenock before the clouds closed over us again. It's even rained ever so slightly this evening in Dunoon, but it's not really cold. We've done some clearing of the room the gas men will be in, and tomorrow we expect to be invaded by tradesmen. 

Photo shows Anna and her father choosing olives from a dazzling selection. I need to return to the market.