You could put what I know about Scottish life and history in the hem of a kilt, but still, I easily say, Edinburgh was enchanting. Old, beautiful architecture, large sky still surprisingly to be seen from horizons, and young, bright-eyed people dashing everywhere. And then there was the castle, a place they send people to, like we do in Salt Lake City to the temple, where much of their history emanates from.
Lunch at the Jekyll and Hyde (yes, Robert Louis Stevenson was born there) and a tour of the Royal British Yacht Britannia. It felt instructive after college to see “old money” deep into tradition, that spends enough to have a yacht, but doesn’t decorate to hold its own to the latest Princess fleet for the Caribbean and its call to U.S. middle class that “deserves” a vacation.
And then we were back into Britain and Gretna Green, a postcard village leading the way to the Lake District. Where mists rise, young maidens lose their virtue, knights stand valiant, and the Green Men from Rosslyn Chapel (Well worth a side trip to this more impressive church of gentle means and greater purpose than stolen gold and silver from lands across the sea brings.) waits through ages.
Somewhere in here I feel overwhelmed. And continue to feel so until I get home and the small history I grew from. What those people half a dozen generations ago tore themselves from to live in something they did not understand at all. I really don’t care about them, but I am surprised by my desire to step away from these forty people on the bus, sit under a tree and just listen.
Then we drive onto the wonder, an Irish Ferry, and go to Dublin. Land still deeper in green and mystery hidden by merriment with a toast and beer. And again I know don’t care to relate to, only to relate in. I am well into the trip and glad I have Sam to lead or I would fall away.