Off on the trot.

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I’m off on the trot again. As I write that I’m suddenly aware that I may be giving my readers a false impression, “on the trot” being a euphemism for diarrhoea, and I have no such affliction, currently, and intend keeping it that way. No, my trotting shall be of a perambulatory nature, and it will lead me towards county Donegal. My youngest daughter will be 25 on Friday so we’re going to be staying in a reasonably isolated cottage for the weekend. We’ll “enjoy” a celebratory meal at a hotel where we’ll eat brutalised food and try to get in as much walking as possible along the shore by Anagaire and over the hills around Gaoth Dobhair. It’ll be a welcome change from the week we’ve just spent visiting our English daughter in Manchester - no crowds, no airport. But the food will not be to my taste. Meat will be invariably tough, the gravy thin and the plate will be overwhelmed by lettuce used to disguise the mediocrity of the fare, an idea restaurateurs have picked up from Adam and Eve’s laughable attempt to cover up their jiggly bits with fig leaves. But at least I don’t have diarrhoea. Or constipation.