My father and my sister J had started their car journey from Stockton, so they were delighted when I suggested we break our journey at the Scottish Antique and Arts Centre. As we pulled into a parking space on the red gravel, I explained how the last time that I was there I had confidently predicted that we would find at least one glug jug on display. In the event there had been three on sale.

It was only when we were inside the showroom that I realised that this was probably not the most sensible place to take my father. Within minutes he had gathered up an armful of purchases including a six inch tall blue Toby jug and a fake Clarice Cliff milk jug, and now he was eyeing up second hand waders in the fishing tackle section.

Meanwhile J was interested in the collection of veterinary memorabilia, and enjoyed watching the metal workers at the forge in the basement.

Even I caught the buying bug and almost gave in to purchasing a 1960s dish that depicted game birds flying over a field – for no reason other than it matched something that we had once owned at the White House.