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…
I wasn’t supposed to have made this cake. At midnight, I lay on my bed furious with myself that yet another attempt to make genoise sponges had transformed into three dense pancakes that were both rock hard and doughy at the same time. I was baking for a charity bake sale, the first since we…
On Sunday afternoon, the sun streaming through the drapes and the flat eerily quiet, I started to bake. The new oven, quick to heat and quiet itself, was turned on and a bag of flour folded over with sellotape was prised open. I had elbow room to bake, nobody needing past to reach the kettle…