Cold light of … Dunbar

Himself talks sometimes of his childhood holidays in Dunbar (he’s an Edinburgh boy, remember) - putting, the harbour - and occasionally gives out the sense that being prostrated by heat was not a feature. Reader, I believe him.

This morning was like an extension of our holiday. I sat in the sunny back garden, sheltered by high stone walls on three sides and the tall house behind me, drinking coffee and reading the book I’d failed to finish in Italy. The birds were singing, and in the distance I could hear the bells of - we think - St Mary’s Cathedral. We were not in church, and for a change it seemed fine. It was t-shirt warm and entirely agreeable.

Later, we had brunch - if sausages in fresh morning rolls qualify as such a middle-class concept. And more coffee. Then the four of us - two parents, two grandparents - and the camera (to record matches for transmission) - piled into the car and set off for Dunbar. Alan had gone in the team bus, but we were all heading for the YSFA Cup final.

I’ve just been told that dinner will be in five minutes, so: Spartans were beaten. The ball spent a lot of time in the air - often above the stand. It was not an enjoyable match, technically speaking. Worst of all, it was perishing cold. The east wind was in our faces as we watched, and though I was wearing more layers than I have in weeks, I was frozen. We all were.

Alan had some lovely moments, but it’s tough to lose. At least there’s the G&T I’m currently drinking- and dinner.

I’m off !