Cold mince

I was eating a roll with cold mince the other day and thinking of my Uncle George, one of whose favourite snacks it was.  He was a crofter and didn’t have a lot of free time but he enjoyed his food, gallivanting round the north and taking us to long-gone wee cafes in  Clashmore and Ardross.  I remember best of all sitting out with him on the stone balcony at the back of the Castle Hotel in Dornoch in the spitting rain, drinking tea and eating shortbread and on that day, there was nothing else I’d rather have been doing.

He was also a great one for picnics and one of the best days of my life was spent with him, his elder daughter and his sister in law when we drove by Loch Maree and then on to Gairloch.  During the picnic, we were huddling into the side of the car for a bit of shelter.  I have a photo of him at the side of the loch, amid the Scots pines with Slioch in the background, looking as if he was planted into the earth.

That same day, my cousin took a picture of me, young and laughing with my coat blowing in the wind but not realising how significant a time it was.  Only later do we know.

 

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