And then the sun came out.
I couldn't believe it. Sun in Scotland. Are you mad? Until now I had a theory that Scotland saved up its small quota of sunny days especially so American tourists could say 'Oh yeah, Scoland - it's really wunnerful, we had wunnerful weather', when told that it rains there all the time. This leaves the locally bred tourist a bit short, as there are not enough good days to go round and I always get rain. Or even snow.
But perhaps I have been away so long that I count as a visitor, because there the sun was hanging in a blue sky with a scribble of big white clouds on the horizon.
We were on our way to St. Andrews, home of golf and student billets of gormless Royal princes, and following the road for Leven or Levin as in Bernard Levin as the photographer pronounced it.
'Look at that bloody power station. Who would put that at the seaside?' he asked as we passed a huge industrial monstrosity at the end of a big kiss curl of sand. I failed to tell him that people from my village used to come here on holiday.
So I held my wheesht and directed him across country to the restaurant. It took us a while to find it as everybody we stopped to ask was posh, under twenty and English and none of them seemed to have heard of it despite it being on the sea front. Eventually a man said: 'Oh you mean the gless boax' (glass box) and directed us to the car park which, having already established that Scotland is a country of aesthetes, is right slap bang at the front of one of the most beautiful beaches in Scotland with the concrete public toilets given pride of place.
Nevertheless, if you look past it, this has to be one of the all time great view restaurants, especially if you go there off season when the pristine beach is empty but for a few seagulls swooping overhead and a line of sunshine sparkling on the horizon like fat on a steak (only my mother would appreciate that simile). Sand stretched as far as the eye could see with seagulls sprinkled on the rocks like confetti.
Or maybe it was guano.
We were met by a snaggle toothed waiter with multihued teeth and staring eyes and a tumbling French accent rolling over his teeth like boulders in a stream, glaring at us: 'We didn’t know you were coming', he said, somewhat sinisterly, all but rubbing his hands together. I half expected to hear a da da da da crushing on the organ and have Vincent Price roll up with the wine and eat us.
After the requisite photoshoot we set off for Elie which the photographer insisted on pronouncing as though it was named after a character in the Bible, and Criel (I wont even tell you how he managed to get his tongue round that - I've since checked the Scottish Language entry in Scotland 1001 Things You Need To Know by Edwin Moore which we're publishing on 18 September but there are no guidelines for place names - we like the English to look stupid).
In Criel you could have lobster cooked while you waited which you ate outside on picnic tables. Lobster! I hear you cry. Outside! You wail. Sun, you chorus. Yes, I do not lie. I am astonished. Whatever happened to sitting in the car in a lay-by in the middle of nowhere (having shot through the scenic spots quickly admiring them from the safety of a car window) eating tea brewed up in the boot under a golf umbrella? Aye - the car parks of Bonnie Scotland - I've shivered in all of them. Where was the lobster then?
We were met by a snaggle toothed waiter with multihued teeth and staring eyes and a tumbling French accent rolling over his teeth like boulders in a stream, glaring at us: 'We didn’t know you were coming', he said, somewhat sinisterly, all but rubbing his hands together. I half expected to hear a da da da da crushing on the organ and have Vincent Price roll up with the wine and eat us.
After the requisite photoshoot we set off for Elie which the photographer insisted on pronouncing as though it was named after a character in the Bible, and Criel (I wont even tell you how he managed to get his tongue round that - I've since checked the Scottish Language entry in Scotland 1001 Things You Need To Know by Edwin Moore which we're publishing on 18 September but there are no guidelines for place names - we like the English to look stupid).
In Criel you could have lobster cooked while you waited which you ate outside on picnic tables. Lobster! I hear you cry. Outside! You wail. Sun, you chorus. Yes, I do not lie. I am astonished. Whatever happened to sitting in the car in a lay-by in the middle of nowhere (having shot through the scenic spots quickly admiring them from the safety of a car window) eating tea brewed up in the boot under a golf umbrella? Aye - the car parks of Bonnie Scotland - I've shivered in all of them. Where was the lobster then?
I walked along the beach, my feet sinking in to the soft sand - a fisherman was laying out rusty chains in a long straight line along the beach. Another woman was fiddling in her little boat getting it ready to launch, litchen on the rocks of the harbour walls the colour of gold, Mediterranean blue sky, cute little pastel cottages.... and I thought - I could live here. Suddenly I saw my future. Me at 65 in wellies and a Barbour with a big hat on my head and a lolloping labrador called Mabel running ahead. I could get myself a tiny cottage for a couple of hundred thousand pounds and take in the odd rambler or hiker for Bed and Breakfast and one day an eccentric millionaire or Brian Eno on a bird watching holiday would wander in looking for one of the items on offer.
I shared this erotic fantasy with the photographer - who didn't seem impressed by my chances of snagging a passing millionaire. Nor indeed of running into Brian (who let's face it I often see in Portobello Road and he hasn't swooned at my feet yet. Last time I saw him he was complaining about dog mess. Oh that man has a silver tongue...)
'But anyway, why is it called is a fish supper when it's only lunchtime?' asked the photographer.
'It just is'. I snapped as we made our way to the Anstruther Fish and Chip Shop in the pretty fishing village of, yes you've guessed it, Anstruther. It did not disappoint. Vinegar flowed like wine and salt like sugar over strawberries from giant shakers, mushy peas, pickled onion and sauce. We settled ourselves outside on a bench and ate it the traditional way - on our knees in the open air.
'But anyway, why is it called is a fish supper when it's only lunchtime?' asked the photographer.
'It just is'. I snapped as we made our way to the Anstruther Fish and Chip Shop in the pretty fishing village of, yes you've guessed it, Anstruther. It did not disappoint. Vinegar flowed like wine and salt like sugar over strawberries from giant shakers, mushy peas, pickled onion and sauce. We settled ourselves outside on a bench and ate it the traditional way - on our knees in the open air.
'I saved that bottle of wine we didn't finish the other night,' he suddenly remembered, dashing briefly back to the car and returning with a bottle of Lebanese Ksara which he poured into a couple of glasses that he borrowed from the Fish and Chip shop.
Scottish Fish and Chips and Lebanese wine. Almost my ex-marriage in a meal. It was bliss, but even in paradise there are problems - a wasp the size of the bobble on a fair isle hat in the guise of a huge white police van that cruised up and down the narrow little street.
'What on earth are the police here for? ' asked the photographer, as he gathered up his litter and wandered up and down the marina holding the wine bottle looking for a bin and only then saw a sign saying:
It is Illegal
to Drink Alcohol
In Public
Fine £500
I can see the headline now: Food Writer and Paparazzi Arrested for Public Indecency.
I've never driven out of a town faster since I hit the car when reversing in a Tuscan village in 1987 and its side caved it.... I mean, I've never driven out of a town faster since I hit that car when reversing out of a parking spot in Knightsbridge....
I mean we drove really quite fast,
Bonnie and Clyde didn't have a look in - and they certainly didn't have an ice cream cone in their hands when they made their getaway.
