Slightly blackened, sir?

Morgane offers Ewan a marshmallow hot, as you might say, from the fire where we'd already cooked a dozen sausages, at The Fallen Rocks north of Sannox. This is yet another tradition from my past, this driftwood cooking fire on the stony beach, followed by feats of daring on the massive lumps of coglomerate ( very painful if you slip) and stone-throwing completions to finish the day. The driftwood was abundant, the weather benign.

The only horror arose on the way there, when the attractive little path of my memories vanished in the mud of a churned-up forest road, the piles of logs testifying to the scale of the operation. Mercifully the last half-mile or so reverted to the required paradisical state or I'd have gone into a decline.

However, the mud didn't deter Anna (4) in the least. "I've had the best time," she told me...