Cambo and St Andrews

There comes a point in every Brit's life, when, whatever their background or prior inclination, they turn into a raging gardener. If they've got money, the obsession takes over whole landscapes. Lady Magdalene Erskine was a galanthophile, who proliferated snowdrops all across the acres of her family estate back in the 30s. Now there are over 200 varieties of them to be found at Cambo, carpeting woodlands that follow the little burn down to the sea.

R took me there yesterday, as we try to wake up properly for Spring. Plenty of other flowers enchant Cambo, but the snowdrops are definitely the stars, at least for now. I tried to photograph them, but couldn't capture the multitudes in their prettiness, any more than I can convey the scent of wild garlic in the woods and hyacinths in the greenhouse, the tall trees riotous with birds, and the rush of the waves waiting. It was so good for our hearts.

Then, because St Andrews is nearby, we popped along to have a gander. I've always dreaded the place because it's the home of golf. Golf! Jeez, I can feel myself nodding off at the word. R can see its attractions, all I see are cute caps, chequered trousers, and me hiding in the clubhouse with a gin the size of my head. Still, leaving that aside, St Andrews has a lot of charm. It's very old and small, still a town rather than a city, and rather dignified, with a hint of long lost ecclesiastical grandeur. I'm not entirely sure but it might even be a bit twee.


The mean streets

The University's got an excellent reputation. I would like to study there for no better reason than that it's good looking and I'm shallow.

Department of Looming at St Andrews University

We might have been more impressed had our heads not been full of flowers, so perhaps we'll take another trip up there to really appreciate the place. Meanwhile, here's the queen of the day.