The Good Life. Part the twelthThe major advantage of the move from Hutton to Duns is the dramatic decline in the pressure of the process of the daily grind-the remorseless routine of rural isolation. Gas on tap. No worries about getting the oil tank filled by a truculent driver navigating the Kirk Lane rain forest. The 13 miles round trip to Sir Morrisons and running the gauntlet of the tattooed, obese, aggressive caravanners, jamming the aisles (npi) and blocking the checkouts is a chore of the past; here a leisurely stroll to a wide range of shops. Friendly service, no queues. The broadband is fast (after a big battle with BT admittedly) the garden is small, the house easily manageable. We miss the postman and the personal mail pick up but here our letters are here by 8-30, ditto the milk-yes in bottles and the sorting office is 150 yards. We also miss the lack of light pollution but it is minimal in this quiet road (And low flying aircraft are rare-only over the town when their Tom Toms are on the blink) and with double glazing the house is snug and easily warmed up. Even the most sensitive of our visiting relis are likely to leave off their fleeces, always worn when in the Old Manse-even in August and once the wood burning stove is in action we may have to open some windows to escape the tropical temperatures.
And of course no newspaper run. No more cringing from the wrath to come as you ask a Salmond lookalike for the
English Daily Mail. Rather a 2 minute walk to one of two newsagents, the Grudian thrust into your hand and the stroll back to the snug garden room for croissants and coffee-well toast and tea, actually.
For a moment I thought I was back to Sir M's this morning, when walking, Guerdienne clutching, homeward bound. A well built lady in front of me briskly propelling a child infested push chair. Broad of back, muscular hind parts, thick arms, tree-trunk legs. Her designer jacket said it all:
Koo Ga'
Built for RugbyLabels: Duns, Sir Morrison's, The Old Manse
