Old haunts but no home

We really are breaking out this week - another trip over the water today, more because of threatened bad weather and an imminent delivery of fish on the other two days remaining than any irresistible restlessness. The original reason had been my wanting to visit a pop-up shop of Palestinian-made crafts, but we combined it with ... well, spending money.

We began in the centre of Glasgow, simply because there is always space in the big car park at Buchanan Galleries. I bought a new pair of reasonably smart comfy shoes to replace the ones I was wearing, which have a worn-away heel, before heading down Buchanan Street to the St Enoch Centre to visit the Rohan shop - a place I tend not to be able to leave empty-handed. In the event we both bought things ... and then dived out of the rain and into the Subway, expecting a short trip round the Inner Circle to Hillhead but in fact having to go all the way round the Outer Circle via the South Side and places I've never been (Sheilds Road, anyone? - except that I have been there, once, visiting Scotland Street museum) which is something I've only done once before in my life, and then by accident. (I think there was maybe a train stuck on the other line).

Byres Road, the centre of the known universe of my youth, was wet and windy, but we found the Palestinian Makers' Market in the basement of a café cum gallery beside where I used to wait for the bus - or was it the tram? - home from school from the age of 10. It was full of beauty - glossy little wood carvings, religious and secular, jewellery, boxes - from which I chose dangly mother-or-pearl earrings and a woven bracelet. The tiny space was busy, the conversation political. I was glad I had gone. After that, Himself declared himself unable to go another step without food, so we found a nearby Italian deli - Santa Lucia, if you find yourself there - and tucked into an antipasto box for two to share: we chose our selection of cured meats, cheeses, breads, olives and dips (Oh, the truffle and ricotta!) and tucked in with the box between us. The coffee was ample and rich and worth waiting for, and I reflected on how strange it was to feel so much at home in a place - Byres Road - and yet have no home in the city any more. It's been twenty years since my mother died and we sold the family home, longer since my younger son and his now wife spent a year in a flat near her, and I've never got used to the idea.

By the time we went back to the subway both circles were open, and eight minutes later we were back in Buchanan Street. By this time we were all shopped out, so we bought some dinner candles in John Lewis and headed for the car and the crowded motorway home.

My photo is of the interior of the Santa Lucia; the gantry of lights above the serving counter on the left was too low for the enormously tall young man who was in charge of the coffees and I fear he will be left with a permanent stoop from working there!

PS: We bought some Italian sausages with fennel to bring home ...