It's taken me a week to recover from an intense time of togetherness in the family time-share at Ballater. The weather was wet, wet, wet, wet but did we care - no we did not. There is plenty to do for those who need real activity; everyone except the grandparents swam and the ankle-biters came on by leaps and bounds, I'm told. Son and eldest g'son played tennis in the rain, squash in their own sweat, and walking around lochs can be nice in the rain apparently. There was plenty of cooking for me to do (and oh how I miss the good food shops in that little town.) Also I played catch-the-grandson as the youngest climbs onto everything in sight and attempts to throw himself off. He looks like Boris Johnson (of whom I am quite fond for his humour and a certain panache, so no rude comments please.) Theo has the blonde floppy hair, squashy face, the winning smile and is rather the same build, so has been renamed BoJo.
No photos - well a few but so poor as to be useless probably because no-one stood still for long. A blurry one of the squirrel who came into the living room.
I felt sad and bereft when they went back south. The subtle change into autumn happened for me this week. I'm never sure what actually alters, the scents, the light, the colours, but something definately signals a turning of the tide and begins to carry us toward the end of the year. One clue was the appearance of the Academy students back in the High street at lunch time to buy their bridies and bags of chips, so maybe it's a prosaic as that.
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