It began in my teens. My two best friends, who were sisters, lived near the school we went to, and they had a television. A fairly grainy, black-and-white one, as they were in those days, but a television none the less, and before bicycling the three miles home, I would stop there to watch with them.

We had our heroes. The elder of my friends supported Lew Hoad; I was a devotee of Ken Rosewall.

In 1956, I think it was, the two young Australians not only faced each other in the finals, they also collected the title for the men's doubles. We followed their fortunes with true passion.

I wrote the only fan letter I ever penned to Ken Rosewall. I was crafty enough to mark the envelope 'personal' and enclose a stamped addressed envelope. His autograph, on a torn-off piece of paper, came back to me and immediately went under my pillow.

My friends' house was opposite the tennis courts in Bridge of Allan. When my Hoad-supporting friend was about 12, she developed a crush on a young tennis player called Roy and would sit on the grassy bank beside the courts throwing sweeties onto the court, hoping he'd notice and thank her.

Later, our teenage social life revolved around the tennis club. I have never been sporty – at school I hated lacrosse, hockey and cricket, all of which I was forced to take part in at some stage or other.

But I did try hard at tennis. I tried very, very hard. I even had coaching. Unfortunately, as well as being very unathletic, I seem to have a problem in co-ordinating my eye with the ball, and I was a real wallflower. I never got invited to the tennis club dance, either.

When the knight was party leader, one of the best invitations he used to receive was to Wimbledon. I went once or twice – it was an event to which he could take someone other than me. We agreed that, usually, it made a nice outing for his tennis-loving secretary, who had few chances to enjoy the plus side of the work and stress that his position brought. And a couple of times he took the children.

The Centre Court was so surprisingly different to television – it was so small, almost claustrophobic. A commentator this week referred to the arena as the coliseum, and that did chime with my own feeling that the enjoyment of the game as a spectator sport is its gladiatorial aspect.

On Monday night I was due at a meeting in Ettrickbridge at 7pm. I watched Murray's first two games and when he was two sets down thought resignedly, "that's it", and didn't turn the set back on when I returned – so I missed the thrilling end of that match.

Murray's rout on Wednesday night by Nadal robs the end of Wimbledon, for me, of the passionate partisanship I haven't felt since Ken Rosewall's glory days. But maybe it's as well, because on Sunday we, along with many dedicated and gifted gardeners in Ettrickbridge, will be taking part in an Open Gardens Day.

We'll be offering croquet, not tennis, on our immaculate lawn – did you know that Wimbledon is run by the All England Tennis and Croquet Club?
There is a postscript to our teenage angsts at the Bridge of Allan Tennis Club.

My friend came back from Australia a couple of years ago and met her old flame at a party. He still lives in the Bridge of Allan/Dunblane area, and he's a grandfather. His grandsons are Jamie and Andy Murray.
This is the time of year when the elderflower are in full bloom.
Here – not for the first time – is my recipe for elderflower cordial.



Elderflower Cordial

50 heads of elderflower (picked when dry), 2 lemons, 6 oranges, 6 lb sugar, 4 oz tartaric or citric acid (from the chemist), 6 pints water.

Put the elderflower in a big bowl or pan. Slice the fruit and add, along with the sugar. Sprinkle the tartaric acid over. Bring the water to the boil and let it cool slightly before pouring into the bowl. Stir to dissolve the sugar. Leave, stirring from time to time, for 24-48 hours and then strain and bottle. I then cut the pulp from the oranges and lemons, liquidise and freeze them as a kind of thick sorbet.