It seemed like such a good idea at the time – to meet up for a family Christmas at a midway point. No-one could remember the last time we all spent Christmas together as a family. Someone was always needed elsewhere.
Saint Abbs, ten miles North of the Scottish border, seemed to be the perfect location. More or less three hundred miles equidistant for those who lived furthest apart, North and South.
It suddenly seemed far less attractive a proposition a few days before we were due to arrive as the weather closed in. Everyone would need to make their journey in some of the most difficult driving conditions that the British weather can throw at you.
For me, a mere two hundred and fifty mile drive straight up the Great North Road (A1) is always something special. It has its own particular, slightly epic, quality with so much history and a magical landscape lining the road on either side.
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