Not the Cam

To die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come…

I don’t so much as wake as finally accept that day has come. The bothy guests have departed and it’s time to start on lunch for today. Roast shoulder of lamb with, as they say, all the trimmings.

I meet Michael and Heidi at the Leadburn. The bus is late. The Leadburn has closed. The sense of decline contrasts sharply with the sharp autumn sun.

Lunch is fun. The lamb is not as succulent as I hoped. 2016 vintage, so the last of the Texels. Never mind - the carrots and potatoes are excellent.

Then we wander the policies. Huts and bothys and barns. Culminating with a boat ride on the pond. Michael and I leave our mobiles on a chair, just in case, and I punt us out into the water. It’s not traditional punting, more an oar that has decomposed into a pole.

It starts to drizzle, so I turn us round and head for shore. The pole gets stuck in the mud and we drift to a standstill in the reeds. There’s a frisson of panic, but I manage to reclaim the pole and get us safely back to dry land.

We drop our guests on Broughton Street and head to Stockbridge to meet Katherine. Claire and her have a booking at a local Thai restaurant. I was going to join in, but it’s fully booked and the table is tiny. Instead, I visit Rachel and Gilbert, sharpen a hoe, share a pot of carbonara.

I’m probably too tired to drive, but at least I’m stone cold sober. There’s no one on the roads and Claire’s Audi seems to drive itself. A dream, perchance?