On Monday, I found a seagull’s egg like a white oval of snow, a tiny globe of life, a blob of whiteness in a swirl of sticks.

On Tuesday, I walk to the Kelpies and stare up at the magnificent horses, touching the clouds with their ears, their eyes gazing over Falkirk.

On Wednesday, I saw a highland coo, a hairy orange blob running through a field, searching for the juiciest grass, like a baby searching for milk.

On Thursday, I touch the smooth waters of loch ness, looking at the vast water of the beautiful loch, watching the stubborn photographers and myth people waiting for Nessy to appear.

On Friday, I taste the wonderful taste of square sausage, a party in my mouth, each bite an explosion of taste.

On Saturday, I hear the shouting of the road as I try to sleep, an endless loop engines and horns, a rampage of wheels.

On Sunday, I dream of Edinburgh castle when it was still being used, the king sitting on his thrown, shouting at his servants to get him the most delicious haggis they could find.