“We spent one night more on the road, in a little cottage. I was by now attuning my ears to the change in accent, and although our hosts spoke broad Scots, I was able, just about, to converse with them. They tried to make us comfortable but hadn’t much wherewithal to do it with. The horses shared a byre with some goats, and with the cottagers we shared a supper of salt bacon and rye bread. Then we slept as best we could, wrapped in fleeces, on the floor by the fire, and had thin ale, goat’s chee...se, and porridge for breakfast. The porridge was made of good oatmeal but lacked the raisins and sugar that usually accompany porridge in the south. Instead, it was served with salt. Between that and the previous evening’s bacon, we set off next day feeling rather thirsty and when, during the morning, we came across a tavern in a small village, Brockley insisted on stopping for ale all around. “There wasn’t enough at breakfast and if I don’t have a proper drink I’ll never get the taste of salt out of my mouth, madam, and I daresay you and Fran are no better.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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