Here we are exploring our homeports before GE2015 turns us on our heads with No. 99 in an occasional series of posts relating to uncoordinated visits to the lands of my beloved fathers also known as Anstruther and Cellardyke. On this occasion we hardly set foot out of either the pub or the hotel; the weather was that usual Scottish mix of wet and dodgy and getting fresh air and drookit wasn't high on the agenda. It was about fish, beer and wine and some chill time on the East coast, snoozing in a warm hotel room, browsing black and white photos, noting changes and demolitions, looking out of cafe windows, drifting in and out of daft conversation, watching people and over indulging. Not a bad way to fritter away the guilty use of some precious time; a thing that can't be valued properly anyway.
Out of season Anstruther is a bit dull, seriously grey and forgotten (expect by the SNP banners and the Fence Co's well beaten tracks) but it's a kind of home for my orphan and awkward spirit. My soul is purified by chips and fish and thoughts of chilly ice creams. Yes chips are king and every pub is full whilst the local hipsters and retirees (I guess) take over. They talk in loud voices and get all the plum seats when the weekend comes around. So what the hell is it like in the summer when the lost tribes return in their camper vans and vests?
Also it's the first proper run in the new/old Mini Coop' rattletrap - now nicely wetted in the springtime and rust enhancing rains.
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