Books, Castles, Champagne and Shoes

            I wouldn’t be human if the main thing on my mind wasn’t the fact that my new book, As If By Magic is published on Thursday.  Yes, that’s Thursday the 25^th June, so

 

  

 

You get the idea!

Do you read John Buchan?  I only ask because almost always, in Buchan’s stories, there’s a comfortable – nay, snug – castle, somewhere on the Scottish borders that various heroes retreat to in the course of the story.  These little glimpses of Paradise were obviously places he knew well.  I only mention it, because my nephew, Richard, got married last weekend and the reception he and his bride, Donna, was held in the most perfect John Buchan-y castle you’ve ever seen.  Comlongan Castle (flag it up on Google if you want to know more) outside of Dumfries is exactly the sort of place he described.  Weddings are always fun, especially if all you have to do is turn up and enjoy yourself, and this one was really special. Even the weather was perfect!  Being Scotland, there were lots of hairy knees in evidence – not mine I hasten to add! – (there are limits) but from various be-kilted blokes, all of which added to the jollity of the occasion. 

The old part of the castle dates back to 14 something but the John Buchan-y part looked like an Eighteenth or early Nineteenth Century extension.  We piled in through the vast oak doors with a piper playing outside into a cosy (honestly!) hall with stained glass, oak and suits of armour. 

 Plied with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, we strolled round the grounds, feeling like lottery winners.  There’s always something though.  While the photos were being taken, I felt myself slipping further and further backwards until it looked like I was trying to regain my balance in a hundred mile an hour wind. In a way, Teresa Chris, my agent was responsible.  On a shopping trip – I’ve mentioned those before – she’d seen a pair of killer red heels and told me I had to have them.  Okay, so that was a sale then.  The aforesaid heels drilled themselves into the soft Scottish turf, causing me to list like a leaky tug.  The only way of freeing myself was to step out of my shoes and rip them from the ground, then spend the rest of the afternoon creeping round on tip-toe so I wouldn’t sink with all hands (or all feet) once more.  Peter’s cousin peered at me and announced, in that earnest Scottish way, that it was a case of pressure per square inch.  I did feel that a truly tactful person wouldn’t have pointed that out! 

            As the soft twilight fell, there were fireworks on the lawn.  It was exactly as I’d imagined the firework scene in Mad About The Boy? (Go on – buy a copy – it’s dead good) only with fewer mysteriously dead bodies, which is always a plus at any party you’re hoping will go with a bang. Live the dream!