North of Edinburgh, across the Firth of Forth lies the Kingdom of Fife. The word "kingdom" is only applied ironically these days, Fife not having been independent for 800 years or so. Still, there is something that sets this bulbous peninsula apart, the south-east corner (the “east neuk” of Fife) most of all. Low, sandy hills sweep gently down to the slowly curving shore. The only straight lines to be seen are man made and there are few enough of those. True, the streets that run straight up from the sea in the little villages sprinkled along the coast could have been laid along tightened fishing lines, but the houses along side them have the sillouhetes of half risen loaves of bread. Precarious lumps of glittering granite, they look as though they could collapse at any minute although none has stood for less than 200 years. The beaches are quietly pleasant during good weather and attritionally awful in bad. The sand is just a shade too pale to be called golden, the grains ...