Munch sunrise over the North sea
I’ve finally unpegged my Lund jumper after days of it hanging rigid in the frost like a dismembered body. But I’m wearing it now and have to say that this is the softest it’s ever felt. When I dry it on my pulley in the Glasgow flat, the wool has the texture of crispbread.
I may just be turning into Wallander as every morning I stand in the garden gazing out to sea, coffee cup in hand. I am not often still but I love the taste of that coffee (made on my pink stove top which matches the Glasgow kitchen – doesn’t that tell you how much I needed to come here), and listening to the odd bird, the sound of the burn and the occasional train in the distance – the line runs precariously parallel with the sea.
My eyes seem to have gone all Nordic too – from mid-blue to ice blue. A bit like the vampire in the Let The Right One In. Or maybe I’m becoming Katie Morag’s Granny Island. I certainly feel that way when I’m cleaning out the fire in the morning and bringing in coal and kindling. I’d love to say I’d felled a tree and chopped the kindling myself but the coalman delivers them oven ready.
Breakfast is the same wherever I am, Stockan’s thick Orkney oatcakes with honey and cinnamon. And then I clean my teeth, Gartymore style with soot from the back of the fire. My mother told me than an old lady who lived in a croft high above the village in the 1940s would come to the door baring teeth the colour of pandrops, and she put it down to a daily rubbing of soot.
As I consume industrial quantities of black tea, my teeth are more the colour of a Werther’s Original and I’ve never quite had the patience for the teeth whitening kit that stares accusingly at me every time I open the (pink) fridge door. And so for the past two weeks I’ve been mixing soot in with my toothpaste. I look like a miner straight out of the pit by the time I’ve finished, but am banking on the fact that soot might also prove a natural exfoliator. Are my teeth all pearly? Too soon to say but the bathroom sink is gleaming.
And here’s a bit of pastoral gossip, the young cockerel down the road has shacked up with two hens and they are living in a ménage a trois in the lower field. Their owner is doing all she can to tempt them home but when I was out photographing the sky this morning, I heard a broken voiced crow from that hoodied cockerel.
Closer to home, my cat Roman doesn’t know it yet, but we are down to the last two packets of HiLife Indulge Me Flaked Skipjack Tuna with Mackerel in light jelly. I stocked up in Waitrose before we left but now he’s going to have to take pot luck from the local shops….to be continued.
Tonight I stir-fried some dried rosehips as a side dish – they looked like false nails and tasted fair to hellish