Pittenweem
My old friends Jo and Alistair live in Pittenweem, perched prettily on the coast of the North Sea. Whenever I, innocently enough, refer to it as a “village” — and it does have that villagey charm, with its narrow lanes and weathered cottages — I am swiftly corrected: “Royal Burgh,” they remind me, with just the faintest whiff of civic pride. Titles aside, it is a delightful seafront place, and their home, a Dutch-style beauty built in the 18th century, sits mere metres from the marina. Lucky them, to wake each morning to that shifting seascape.
And lucky me, to stay with them. Jo, though now wheelchair-bound, is as jolly and irrepressibly positive as ever. Assisted by her devoted Alistair, she somehow conjured up a feast last night worthy of a professional chef. The dinner party included a couple from the “burgh,” and I adored every dish. Taking the hint, or perhaps just being hopelessly generous, Jo and Alistair packed me a leftover banquet for my train journey back to London. Few things say friendship quite like a carefully wrapped Tupperware of love.
I’m already looking forward to returning next year. There’s more of Scotland calling to me — its windswept coasts, its storybook towns, and, of course, the lure of another Pittenweem feast.