Thank god, it’s Friday.

I only needed 13 miles today to complete my 100 miles in five consecutive days, which I had decided was the minimum weekly mileage for my Holland trip, but we all have to start with a realistic goal.

I dilly-dallied until after 10 am before setting out, the skies were overcast and a keen east wind blowing, I wish I had pulled on my woolly hat, my lugs were fair nipping by the time I arrived at Guardbridge, Just over 3 miles from home. I had passed a field being cultivated by one tractor, furrowed by another, with gulls in attendance.

And finally planted with potatoes from another.

How far we have travelled from the land I knew as a boy.

No school kids now gather the potato crop,

A potato monster will now do the job.

At the old bridge over the Eden River, I saw a cyclist resting there, we had been nodding to one and other, in the passing, for months now, so I stopped for a blether, and to take a few photographs whilst I was stopped. I was cooling down fast so made my excuses and pushed on, promising to meet up for a coffee when the weather improves. Improves it’s the middle of May for god sake.

And a coupe of antiques on the bridge

The old adage tells us,

Never to cast a cloot until the May, flowers is oot,

Coming along the cycle path, the broom was in full flower, and bluebells lay in drifts on the woodland floor. Wild garlic stung at my nostrils over by St Michaels. The May, flowers may well be out but with weather like this, I will not be casting any cloot just yet.

I turned off at St Michael’s and headed back via the A914 for Dairsie Osnaburgh roundabout then onto the A91 for home, pushing me 6.3 miles over my 100 targets.

I’m H-A-P-P-Y I’m H-A-P-P-Y, I know I am, I’m sure I am, I’m H-A-P-P-Y

Today’s music is a collection of Aria from the Royal Opera House. Puccini wrote some magnificent aria and from Suor Angelica, comes one of the worlds favourites. Senza Mamma, Angelica has brought disgrace on her family by giving birth to an illegitimate child. In remorse she has entered a convent but is unable to forget her son. Her aunt, the princess, tells her that the child has died. This aria is as delicate and fragile as fine bone china, that fragility and hurt from this deserted heroine is palpable when sung by Nina Rautio, Nina, was still very young in the 1990s when I heard her for the first time at the Edinburgh Festival – I’ve loved listening to her ever since, (I may be wrong but I believe she is Russian), but music knows no borders it is universal, as are the voices of its singers.

My iScot magazine arrive this morning so I better hang my Do Not Disturb notice on the door, for I will be otherwise engaged for a while.

Keep safe. 

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