When my sister and I were little, our uncles brought us to Princes Street gardens and bought us an ice cream each. Like every cartoon of an ice cream, it was a tall Mr Whippy with a crumbly flake poking out of the side. Yet the game changer was the raspberry sauce, pooling into the…
It’s hard to keep a secret like a batch of freshly baked brownies from your boyfriend, especially if they are for his birthday the next day. Our kitchen smelled sweet and the oven still warm, yet I tried to pass it off as a batch of hot chocolate I’d made that drizzly Sunday afternoon. He…
The road to Tayvallich likes to deceive those it carries. The single track road, with scalloped edges for passing places, lifts high and carries to low to sea level. Loch Sween sparkles as close to the edge of the tyres as it dares, then it pulls away and you twist through trees and hedges full…
It’s a Sunday afternoon, the remains of breakfast plates scattered on the table and Marr rumbling in the background on the television. Eggs were scrambled with far too much butter and salty smoked bacon grilled to a crisp. My avocado was a little disappointing, a murky pond water green but I drowned it in lime…