Gone native

Back to Gastrobeach after a break in beautiful, autumnal Perthshire. We stayed in a log cabin in a forest by a river. Our American friend who joined us there for a day said it was like a "mini Adirondacks".

It's a crackling frosty morning here. When I opened the blinds the windows were covered with ornate frosted patterns. I looked closely to see if I could spot fractals, reminded of the passing of Mr Mandlebrot this week. The patterns melted quickly to reveal bright sunshine and blue skies. The sun is so dazzling that it's hard for me to look out towards the bay.

As I haven't had a chance to forage since I returned I will just have a rant. The native Oysters Ostrea edulis around the coast of Scotland apparently belong to the queen. What is that all about? It seems wherever you turn in Scotland and however you try to live you come up against some ancient feudal, monarchical ownership rubbish. The law states that Scottish native Oysters are the property of the Crown. How ridiculous.

That being the case I will tell about how I didn't find five juicy native Oysters around the time I was picking Cockles. I did not shuck them (with great difficulty or otherwise). I did not cook them under a hot grill. I did not season them with tabasco and lemon juice. And I absolutely did not eat them and find them absolutely delicious.

I'm quite satisfied that the queen didn't get them either. Case closed.