Not last week but the week before I spent a delectable few days in Achiltibuie, a wee village off over the hill, over there, distant, on the horizon, by the sea over there. It was a long and uneventful if very mountainful drive over the hills and through some raw and dramatic scenery. Neil had some work there chopping down and chopping up trees for our friend Julia, bless her cotton socks, who was going to let us stay in her uber-rustic holiday cottage.

It’s very beautiful, with twee details of wooden hearts hanging non-chalantly here and there, real ‘art’ on’t wall, with a wood burner and a BATH (A WOODBURNER! A BATH – we have neither of these things so I am thrown into paroxysms of excitement when the prospect of using one crops up).

I had a nice picture of the morning sun coming into the porch but I can’t make it small enough to put in this post. Am techno-rubbish. Here are a couple of pictures not really giving a sense of the house at all…

However, when Neil came in for tea one day I relentlessly took photos of him until I got some passable ones. Here be they, below.

Satisfied that I had some of him and the twee apron/wood cladding kitchen combo I digressed. He’s got such great, muddy, working men’s hands.

For myself, I wrote on the computer, made the flattest lemon cake ever known to man and made many batches of lemon curd. One jar a swapped with a man called Steve for some of his home (grown? Collected? Produced?) wild honey which is delicious. Especially good on Greek yogurt mmmm.

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