First Dip

Scones. (I know, I know, not typical breakfast fare; but they were yummy--and made by me.)

Yesterday I had my first alfresco swim of the year. I say "swim," that's a generous description of the very brief few strokes I made through the cold, cold, lily loch. (It's yet to get its lilies.)

The dog did not at all approve of my dip. And while it may have been chilly, you couldn't really ask for a better swim spot.

Messing with Facebook

Doppelganger shreddies and an apple.

I discovered the other day -- through Miss Ramsay -- a new and childish delight: messing with Facebook's advertising feedback. I like to think that by flagging an advert for Manolo Blahniks('s?) as "against my views", and labelling "Get paid to type" "sexually explicit," I am distorting some algorithm or other. Perhaps   I need to get off the island. Or Facebook.

Lost Count

Now seems a good time to dispense with the breakfast numbering, as I seem to have lost count.

Had a lovely walk out to Oronsay today, accross a tidal causeway. The tide wasn't very far out when we got there, we tried to run for it, we got wet. Very wet. But then that's half the fun of Skye walks. Especially when you know there's a warm fire to go home to.

P.S. after last night's game of 1981 Trivial pursuit, I can advise that -- if in doubt -- the answer is Brazil or Boston. Also, if you answer Humphrey Bogart enough times, eventually it will be the answer.

P.P.S. Sorry for the lack of photo again today. I did take one, but the camera is a long way from the computer and who knows where the card reader is... I will post it tomorrow.

Breakfasts Three-Hundred-and-Nineteen-to-Twenty-Six

No. 319: Two apples (nothing else to eat that morning); No. 320: Porridge;
No 321: Porridge again (same photo as I forgot to take one); No.322: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.

No. 323: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes; No. 324: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes;
No. 325: Crunchy Nut Cornflakes; No. 326: Scrambled eggs on toast.

Oof, it's been a while. A week in fact, no, more -- eight days. Eight days in which I have become a self-employed person, attended a birthday party, virtually melted my skin off with mould-busting bleach stuff, and knackerd my hip shifting boxes. (My poor hip. I'd feel old, but actually this has been a problem since I was a teenager -- heavy lifting makes for two-to-four days of lameness.)

I am now ensconced at home, where the ambient temperature in my bedroom last night was a balmy 7.5ºC. I think I need thermal pyjamas. And an additional hot water bottle. Today I have been nearly drowned twice.  Once walking to and from the coral beach (horizontal driving rain, you are not my friend). And once streaking from the car to the co-op, a distance of no more than 30 metres: enough to entirely saturate my clothes, and fill my right ear with water. I'm toasting myself by the fire now though, so all is well.

Breakfast the Two-Hundred-and-Ninety-Ninth

Porridge with brown sugar.

I think this may be my first porridge -- which is sort of incredible given I am rather fond of it, especially when swimming in cream (or at least full fat milk as it is here).

I've been Guy Fawkes-ing tonight at Dunvegan castle -- where we saw an amazing fireworks display. It's difficult to beat pyrotechnics reflected in a castle window.

Breakfasts Two-Hundred-and-Thirty-Six to Forty-Four

You may have noticed an absence of breakfasts posts recently. Fear not, I have merely been on holiday, rather than forgoing "the most important meal of the day" (pictures to follow when I have the energy to wrangle with photoshop).

In keeping with current fashions, I've been staycationing -- in the Hebrides. I borrowed my Mater's car, dognapped my hound from my Pater and braved the ferry in order to visit the Uists, Harris and Lewis with my friend Miss Brown. We returned to Skye with a car full of sand, a dog full of sausages and cameras loaded with pictures of all the wonderful scenes we saw. I cannot recommend a Hebridean jaunt enough.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Fifty-Ninth

Cinnamon & raisin bagel with raspberry jam and blackberry, strawberry and boysenberry smoothie.

It is frighteningly easy to waste a good deal of time on the Google satellite thing. Especially now that you can see Skye in quite some detail. I've just been perusing all my favourite swim spots, and rather wishing I was there, where -- miraculously -- it is not raining. Edinburgh is oppressively soggy today.

Breakfasts One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Nine to One-Hundred-and-Thirty-Four

No. 129: Yoghurt & granola and a smoothie; No. 130: Toast & raspberry jam and a yoghurt; No. 131: Sausage, Bacon & Egg (egg not pictured...); No 132: Sausage & Bacon; No 133: Muesli; No 134: Special K cluster thingys & apple juice.

Many breakfasts at once again. I've been away on the West coast with friends having altogether too much fun -- climbing mountains, sea kayaking and eating deliriously happy-making quantities of seafood.

Seeing as I was so close, I popped home to Skye for a night too. I lost breakfast number 132 en route: the fatal interaction of a slight hangover, winding roads and the sight of the ferry rolling up and down. (Yep, that's right, I must be one of the only people for whom the mere sight of a boat on choppy waters is enough to induce sickness.)

On the way back I was recommended ginger tea. It worked rather well, though I did burn my tongue very badly drinking it out of one of those stupidly hot thermos cup thingys.

Whilst home, my Papa and I built a bird house. Here it is in the work shed precariously balanced on some rolled-up lino. It even has a rain gutter with a contraption to drain the water into a drinking bowl for the birdies.

I'm back in Edinburgh now and the weather has taken a turn towards the apocalyptic. I've had to resurrect my winter PJs and fire up the hottie bottie.

Breakfast the Forty-Seventh

Cinnamon & raisin bagel, and mango & passion fruit smoothie.

One of the lovely, lovely things about Edinburgh is that you can still see the stars. Obviously it's nothing like a night on Skye when the whole sky is ablaze with stellar pin-pricks; but still, I do so enjoy catching The Plough winking down at me as I amble home after a glass of wine and a catch-up with a friend. Sometimes I wonder whether I don't spend too much time looking up. Between star-gazing and cloud-ogling, it's incredible I don't trip up more often.