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shewhomustWe stayed in St Margaret's Cottage, which from the outside looks tiny, a cottage indeed, but is larger inside than seems possible - I'm still not sure where that extra space comes from.
We went for a walk, which took us through the village and on minor roads through farmland, then along a sweep of stony beach and back to the road between grassy verges lined with bluebells - white, pink and bluebells. The junction of the stone wall and the wire fence was marked by a large stone "gatepost", topped with a stone otter to which someone had added a red bow tie. This brought us to the far side of the island, and the sandy beach where the boys' ploughing match is held.
We bravely left the road to follow the cliff top path, full of enticements: violets underfoot, pink campion growing by the wall, now and then a glimpse of the gulls nesting on the cliff below, and mysteriously, laid out along the path, three sky blue eggs, one after another. Too good to be true, the path ran out at the fence of a new house - and while he was considering this, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
durham_rambler was buzzed by a bonxie. We picked our way across the field, back to the road.
We dined at the Creel: I had duck and pork belly terrine, surrounded by dabs of picalilli and beetroot, seared tusk and steamed megrim (because I couldn't resist; they're both fish, of course, it was obvious from the context they were going to be fish, but still...) with red peppers, intensely red and savoury against the white sweetness of the fish, and lemon tart, accompanied by a spoonful of marmalade ice cream in a miniature brandysnap basket. It seems inappropriate that a brandysnap basket should become the "signature dish" of someone who cooks fish as well as Alan Craigie does, but there you go: you can hardly claim "fish" as your "signature dish". Besides, that ice cream was wonderful - velvet smooth, sweet and bitter: I am an unworthy person with low tastes, and that ice cream was the highlight of my meal.
We went for a walk, which took us through the village and on minor roads through farmland, then along a sweep of stony beach and back to the road between grassy verges lined with bluebells - white, pink and bluebells. The junction of the stone wall and the wire fence was marked by a large stone "gatepost", topped with a stone otter to which someone had added a red bow tie. This brought us to the far side of the island, and the sandy beach where the boys' ploughing match is held.
We bravely left the road to follow the cliff top path, full of enticements: violets underfoot, pink campion growing by the wall, now and then a glimpse of the gulls nesting on the cliff below, and mysteriously, laid out along the path, three sky blue eggs, one after another. Too good to be true, the path ran out at the fence of a new house - and while he was considering this, durham_rambler was buzzed by a bonxie. We picked our way across the field, back to the road.We dined at the Creel: I had duck and pork belly terrine, surrounded by dabs of picalilli and beetroot, seared tusk and steamed megrim (because I couldn't resist; they're both fish, of course, it was obvious from the context they were going to be fish, but still...) with red peppers, intensely red and savoury against the white sweetness of the fish, and lemon tart, accompanied by a spoonful of marmalade ice cream in a miniature brandysnap basket. It seems inappropriate that a brandysnap basket should become the "signature dish" of someone who cooks fish as well as Alan Craigie does, but there you go: you can hardly claim "fish" as your "signature dish". Besides, that ice cream was wonderful - velvet smooth, sweet and bitter: I am an unworthy person with low tastes, and that ice cream was the highlight of my meal.
