Ten days of cross-Channel travel with much fun and games comes to an end tomorrow. Two Saturdays ago I abandoned
la bienheureuse in Lyon and, wonder of wonders, caught an on-time flight to Stansted, which got me to the new home of football, via a quick detour to Cambridge to pick up the ticket, in time to see a catalogue of tasty Danish chances go begging. Ultimately however, the Lancashire claret and blues were despatched comfortably enough, and a train/bus/train trip later I was back in Cambridge chez the builder-gardiner, where a chicken dinner and evening of beer-drinking in the Empress awaited.
A lazy Sunday for me followed, chief entertainment derived from observing the early stages of the courtship ritual of the Margarita bird. Continuation of said ritual the following day caused me to shift base from Fen Ditton to Cherry Hinton, where I enjoyed the usual high quality hospitality chez J&C until the second match of the week on Tuesday. The red and white goal thirst was duly quenched by generous measure of blue and white Port, so I flew back to Lyon on Wednesday in suitably high spirits.
Reunited with
ma bien-aimée, the following day we promptly flew back to Blighty, north of Hadrian's wall this time, paying a visit to the Sogwig in her North Berwick nest. We arrived to find her very soggy indeed, suffering from a 24 hour bout of icky tummy, but the following day she was well enough for us to leave her working while we trundled into Edinburgh to meet up with the Margarita man. The day was spent gossiping over coffee, gossiping over lunch, and purchasing new leather bags and cheeses. Back to North Berwick for the evening, with the arrival of the JoneBoy completing the usual quintet.
Saturday morning dawned bright and breezy, and after a fry-up we took advantage of the sunshine and bracing winds with a stroll along both beaches, followed by coffee and cake and a bread and cheese lunch. TV rugby and football occupied the late afternoon and early evening, with pre-dinner cocktails in the pub happily coinciding with a late, late breach of the Humberside defences by the heroic north London invaders. A rather excellent dinner at North Berwick's premier Italian restaurant, accompanied by much quaffable wine, was followed by more cocktails and karaoke back in the pub. It was a mercifully short stumble home.
The Sunday morning constitutional was an amble up North Berwick law, which cleared heads and was followed by a trip to the supermarket to purchase provisions for a delicious fry-up brunch. The afternoon was taken up with a short drive and stroll along Seacliffe beach, before it was time for JeB to start the exodus early in the evening. The remaining trio of visitors thanked their lovely host with a tasty chicken in milk dinner, finished off with creamy apple and blackberry crumble.
The pattern of walks on the beach in the bracing breeze continued this morning, and afterwards we drove and tunnel-walked to picturesque Cove harbour, then did our final beach walk of the weekend in the shadow of a nuclear power station. No three-legged fish were spotted. Lunch at the seabird centre was followed with another stroll along the high street, and then it was time for Professor Margarita to be ferried to the airport. Tomorrow it will be our turn, and a lovely four days with Doctor Sandswig will alas be over...
