The Scone Chronicles XXIV

We took a short ride out on Friday, just to blow a few cobwebs away. I even remembered to take the camera with me.

After breakfast and a couple of errands we swung out to Lincoln to have a look at Whisby Garden Centre. It’s looking a bit threadbare, the butcher has gone and a lot of book covers in The Works are curling due to damp.

On the other hand the staff are friendly, the place has character and I was able to east scones whilst sitting by a wood burning stove and looking out of the window at a duck pond.

We’ve drifted off course this year – with fewer piers and fewer scones than originally intended. That’s partly my fault as I’ve not done enough planning, and partly circumstances – including Julia’s time on jury duty.

If I had to be honest I’d have to say it was mainly down to me because I’ve not felt like walking much, and I don’t like the south-east, where we have to go in search of piers if we are going to be serious. Our last pier expedition was to Wales and the North West and the walk round Llandudno really struck home. There is a lot of difference between this year’s trip and the one we took before all the trouble started.

But, as a Victorian novelist would say, I digress.

The subject is scones. At Whisby we had tea and scones and, as I mentioned earlier, were able to sit with one side facing a duckpond and the other side being nicely warmed by burning logs.


Not sure what she’s looking at, but she seems worried by something behind me. Note the scarf – it was a birthday present.

If I ever have grandchildren they will probably read this one day in absolute horror. And it won’t be at my deplorable writing style because grammar will have died by then and spelling will have been replaced by predictive text and American spellcheckers. See here for a note on American spelling.

Did my grandfather really burn fossil fuel and choke a nation just to go for a scone? And did he really kill a tree just to get warm? That’s before they get to the point of wondering why anyone would want to eat a scone, which will be seen as a dangerous fat and sugar delivery device.

The answer is yes, and I enjoyed it. Though I would have enjoyed it more if they’d baked it at a lower temperature to avoid the crust, and if they hadn’t sprinkled it with icing sugar – it isn’t necessary.

15 thoughts on “The Scone Chronicles XXIV

  1. Pingback: Diaries, Doctors and Dinner | quercuscommunity

  2. Lavinia Ross

    I agree, no extra sugar on scones! There never was a scone like the ones we used to get at Good Harvest Bakery (and breakfast) back east. They have since closed down, but I remember they had the best blueberry-oat scones.

  3. arlingwoman

    Those look so fabulous, I may have to bake some this morning. The whole trip sounds great. As for grandparenthood, one hopes presentism in historical analysis will have run its course. I think both my grandfathers would drink a butchered animal’s blood and I’ve never held it against them other than being a bit repulsed by the action, so you could luck out. Sorry about American spelling and really sorry about what technology is doing to spelling and grammar, but you can choose British English in your settings, right? I think so, because I choose American. Get in there and change the language settings, then all those predictive words will help once in a while with texts to the kids…

    1. quercuscommunity

      I’m actually quite interested in how the two languages differ, having always been told that in some ways the Americans speak a purer form of English, having preserved some Shakespearean terms.

      WP simply started trying to change everything to American a few months ago – no idea why. I just assumed that it was a general change as I hadn’t altered it. I will look at it and check.

      As for animal blood, I’m a keen consumer of black pudding, which is made with pigs blood so I can’t really comment on drinking blood.

      1. arlingwoman

        Yes, and there’s blood sausage, too, but that goes to show you that the grands might not care–or might think it was kind of cool and wish they could do that too… There’s a place in the Chesapeake Bay called Tangier Island where people speak a form of Shakespearean English and in the Appalachian mountains, you’ll hear things as well–for instance, sneck, or sneck up, which is an old Scottish word meaning to lock–as, say a window or door–was used by my grandparents as a warning to stop talking and I’ve never heard anyone else use it. They were by that time more than 200 years from Scotland or the Isle of Man. Webster and someone else who wrote a dictionary are responsible for taking the u’s out of harbor and color, I think…

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