Culter Church

The East coast mist hung low over the cherry trees in the Meadows at foot- over- the-edge of bed time this morning, but no matter, we had plans to picnic at a waterfall at Birthwood near Culter, where we were certain there would be glorious sunshine; and so there was, and heat too.

In fact so used are we to Arctic temperatures that it was almost too hot, but who was complaining? Not I or His Lordship, who was brave enough to shed his footwear and dangle his toes in the cool freezing water. Had he worn a knotted hankie on his bald pate, he would surely have looked the part of city dweller gone feral.

This particular spot in the Biggar Hills is his Lordship's spiritual home and restores his faith in the world, rendering him cheerful and positive.

We drove home by Broughton, Blyth Bridge, Romano Bridge and West Linton, little villages sparkling in the sun with the inhabitant suddenly sporting summer clothes for the first time since late March.

Back home the mist was gone and the Meadows looked like the site of a biblical exodus with hundreds of people sitting round smoking barbecues, and the ever present bongo drum beating out its insistent rythmn.

My blip is looking through a gate in the grounds of the delightful little white Culter Church, whose minister is the Rev Cutler. How apt is that.