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Not Paris or Venice – I took Ann to Glasgow to celebrate her birthday. It was a weekend of appetite and passion and curiosity, for which Glasgow is – despite the Edinburger prejudices – the perfect environment.

I chose a hotel called the Kirklee (here’s a nice satellite image)

It’s one house in a very odd red sandstone serpentine terrace in one of the loveliest parts of the West End. It was designed by David Barclay in 1902, so it’s contemporary with Mackintosh, whose art nouveau influence can be seen in the stained glass. Otherwise it’s more traditionally Edwardian, something the proprietors of the hotel make a big thing of, though I can’t say they’ve succeeded very convincingly: there are too many tacky 70s/80s features for it to be a complete immersion in a different era.

The welcome wasn’t what you expect in Glasgow, the breakfast was very disappointing (Walls’ sausages – you get the idea) and there was no hot water for the shower. Still, none of that could spoil the atmosphere of the place.

This a view from the window at around 5AM.

It’s such a lush, cosy and quiet place, and yet only five minutes’ walk from Byres Road, the buzzing heart of the West End.

We went for a walk on the Saturday, from the hotel to Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, via the Botanic Gardens, the River Kelvin and Kelvingrove Park. It’s an immense pleasure to enjoy this kind of walk, surrounded by the life of Scotland’s most exciting city.

Here’s the Kelvin, lazy and full of life.

Certainly didn’t expect to see a bullfinch so close. An excellent wee bird. This one’s got a beak full of nesting material.

The remains of Glasgow’s industrial infrastructure are everywhere, giving the place a haunted feel, as if the energy of past generations suffuses the place and people of today. This must be part of Glasgow’s appeal. It has such a strong identity and never tries to be anything else.

So after a while you get to Kelvin Bridge, which carries Great Western Road over the river, and things become less gentrified and more exciting.

This tunnel leads out to the outside seating area of Big Blue, a great bar with an enviable and odd position by the river. We had a drink there and continued on downsteam towards the park.

The Kelvingrove Art Gallery & Museum was our ultimate destination, recently opened again after many years of renovation. The most striking thing about the visit was the sense of ownership the people had, the feeling that it was everybody’s. The kids were loving it and all kinds of people were pointing out what had changed since they were last there. It was proof that traditional museums don’t need to go out of their way to impose some kind of official inclusivity from on-high.

That night we ate at 16 Byres Road, a lovely wee restaurant. It was friendly and everything had a nice touch. I had seared tuna loin – raw in the middle, just how it should be – coated in black pepper, with a salad and asian dressing followed by pork belly with green lentils. Superb. Ann had duck leg with orange and rocket salad in a beetroot emulsion, followed by monkfish and scallops with basil. All with a nice Rioja. Exquisite food and a great atmosphere.

We wandered up to Ashton Lane. There was no warning that once we’d turned that corner we’d be entering into the midst of a great big party. The place had a vibe like Hogmanay, the cobbled street was heaving with people moving between bars, and was fringed by outdoor drinkers. It’s always been a cosy wee street, but the sheets of lights hanging between the buildings above intensified that atmosphere. We stood outside Jinty McGinty’s and watched all the people go by. It was great just being there, but we only stayed for one, eager to get back to the hotel as we were.

Much later that night I happened to be at the window having a cigarette when a young guy in a fancy car pulled up, got out and loitered by his car. I was intrigued, told Ann, and then she joined me at the window to watch. We were hidden by the flowers in the window box, so I don’t think we could be seen.

Five minutes later a fat Porsche pulled up and two girls spilled out. The Porsche drove off and one of the girls retired into one of the houses in the terrace. The other girl joined the guy who’d been waiting, and they began to chat. She sat on his bonnet and proceeded to flirt with him in the most obviously horny manner you can imagine. She was wearing a miniskirt and she was displaying her lovely legs to him, and she was stroking and playing with her clothes with a coy but outrageous sexuality. And Ann suggested that she was getting excited at the idea that she was being watched, because she was glancing up in our direction occasionally.

But after 10 minutes of this he still wasn’t making a move. He was shuffling around awkwardly and behaving laddishly. Ann and I were both thinking just kiss her you fool! Was he mad? Gay? Shy? But when I think back to my own youth I realise that I too probably missed such opportunities through lack of experience of female body language and psychology – so I’ll let him off. Well in the end he drove off on his own with hardly a kiss, probably to the immense frustration of both of them.

We walked into the city centre along Sauchiehall Street.

We waited for the train in George Square. Above, a Glasgow ned sleeping off his hangover, and an old man who probably comes here every Sunday to read the paper, when the weather’s fine.

There’s something about the neglected corners, back entrances and hidden spaces of cities that attracts me, like this rusting spiral fire escape.

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