Considering the dire weather, I enjoyed my brief exploration of the Rhins of Galloway peninsular, from Stranraer down to the lighthouse at the tip: the Mull of Galloway. I wound up in in a little one-horse town called Drummore, and ventured into the pub. My cricket sweater is proving to be a good starter of conversations, as people wonder why some old geezer appears to be impersonating a cricketer. I tell them that, since England are doing so badly in the Ashes, I’m waiting for that phone-call from the chairman of selectors, asking if I could fly out to Australia and play in the next test. I got into an animated conversation with the locals at the bar, which made for a convivial evening.
This morning I drove to Portpatrick, another little town on the Atlantic coastline, with an attractive harbour, and I’m now back in Stranraer, parked up with a sea view. If the rain relents, I might go back to Portpatrick tomorrow and take some pix. If not, I’ll carry on writing the book… like I did today…
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