I love Scotland. When I moved here some years ago it felt as though I'd come home to where I belonged, and I've never regretted a moment.

My grandfather was a Scot: a proud, dour and doughty man who had a very difficult childhood and carried deep scars until he died. The family legacy of that led to my own scars, but uncovering his life and his history is helping me come to terms with mine. There is peace and acceptance in that understanding.

There's something about buying things in second-hand and charity shops. Particularly when you're rummaging around for old kitchen things: plates, bowls, casserole pots, teapots. New stuff never has quite the same pleasure for me; things need to have a history.

Doesn't even matter whether the plates and the cups and the bowls match or not, or if they're plain or patterned, round or square. I'm not even fussy about a tiny chip here and there. Finally, this plate, this engraved spoon, this sturdy little crock pot has found me and my home and is going to become part of my history, see my life played out between winter days when only hot soup will do, shared dinners with friends, and thoughtful times alone over a cup of tea.

Things are not always what they seem. This is a glass-fronted office building in Glasgow reflecting back the beautiful architecture on the other side of the street. There's a For Sale sign in the top middle window, too: a little surprise of visual delight. 

Imagine living in that flat at the top of that building. Imagine the views you'd get across Glasgow and of the changing skies in the far distance as you watch the cloudscapes, curtains of rain, rainbows, the glimmerings of first and last light.