The situation had arisen as follows. The Burd had planned a surprise meal for me. She drove through driving rain and, as we left the city, my bewilderment grew. But it lightened again as we stopped in lovely Aberlady. Funnily enough, I don't think I'd ever stopped in the East Lothian village before, just driven through, admiring it. Being in it would turn out to be a real enchantment.

We were dining in Duck's, a very enjoyable experience, enhanced by the above-noted singing. The song, as you will have recognised, is by Syd Barrett, one of Pink Floyd's founders, and the best of them, though he dropped out before they became mega.

A Pink Floyd recording played in the background at Duck's, and this pleasant fellow asked what we thought of the music. Being a prog-rock sort of chap, I said it was fine, but that I preferred the early band with Syd at the helm.

He then proceeded to recite a couple of lines. By the time he'd got back to the kitchen, this had worked up to a fine yodel, the lyrical accuracy of which impressed me. I said "proprietor" above, and I'm sure it was he. I knew his name was Malcolm Duck, and I looked up photies of his heid on the internet – it sure looked like him. If it was not, I apologise. But the reference is laudatory not defamatory, unless it's now deemed an outrage to be singing songs by Syd.

Besides, the grub was great, and the service from everyone very friendly, and the Burd had a further surprise for me. She is not big on drink and, consequently, I like dining out with her because, when I order a bottle of wine (I hate ordering by the glass), I usually get it all to myself. I almost wept, therefore, when she asked if she could have a glass. Was she trying to ruin the entire evening?

Then she revealed that the aperitif she'd had, and which I'd assumed to be a soft drink, had contained vodka, the tipple she sips when the occasion occasionally demands. I tell her it's an alcoholic's drink, and cheekily she says: "But I've rarely seen you touch it." I say: "I'm the Band of Hope, compared to some people."

"Name one," she says.

"Ronnie Wood," I offer feebly.

Something else was bothering me. Amidst the damp, clinging fogs of my brain, synapses were trying to spark themselves alight. At last, low-energy bulbs came on to create the effect of a watery dawn. "Hang on," I said. "You can't be drinking. For who is to drive me home?"

Then she revealed that we were staying in the Kilspindie House Hotel, of which the restaurant is a part. What a gal! She'd felt sorry for me, since I was on holiday but hadn't been furth of the hoose, as we're skint after having the kitchen done. I was starting to go stir-crazy. When you work from home, not going anywhere for a break is like having your holiday in the office.

So, here we were having a change of scene, and the scenery was much to my liking. After dinner, we went for a walk. The weather had cleared to a fine evening, especially considering we'd arrived earlier in a hailstorm. It was at this point that I saw Camelot. True, I'd been watching the series Merlin on telly, and there was the incidental factor that I'd had one pint of Guinness, three-quarters of a bottle of wine, and one brandy. Oh, and a French coffee (with brandy in it). But, sure as eggs is eggs, there was Camelot in the distance, standing stark against the moonlit sky.

It was only the first of several Arthurian coincidences that flooded in, starting with that magical evening, when we walked around the village, admiring the wee cottages with their Gothic windows and the individually designed stand-alone houses of varying shapes and hues, all so lovely, so divorced from today's concrete boxes.

We stood watching the sea in the semi-distance, and I learned from an information board that Aberlady had been the port of Haddington, just as Leith was the port of Edinburgh. As the sea of Leith runs through my veins, I took this as another good portent. Next week, I'll reveal the strange Arthurian coincidences. But, lastly for this week, I looked up Syd on the internut and found an interview with his biographer, Tim Willis, who said: "He became, as it were, a myth, an Arthurian figure." How odd.