Obsidian Wings, one of my multiple times daily blog visits, has lurched uncontrollably into a series of Scottish threads first on single malt Scotch whisky and now on the poetry of Bobbie Burns.
A few years ago my wife and I visited the Scottish highlands. We simply loved it. The history was fascinating, the scenery beautiful, and the people incredibly hospitable. It was like coming home.
One anecdote from our trip. We spent our first night in Scotland in a B&B in Edinburgh. We rose the next morning and, over breakfast with other fellow-visitors, agreed to share a car ride into town center. Well, while looking for a place to park we got pretty turned around as you could expect in the twisty streets of Edinburgh. It was early on a chill and slightly misty Sunday morning and the only people about were a pair of men patching the street. My wife walked over to the men and asked them where the castle was. One of the men looked up and said, solemnly, “Och, I canna tell ye. ‘Tis a secret.” It was at that point that we absolutely knew we weren’t in England. He then pointed. We were standing under the castle.
Please do not call my national poet Bobbie Burns. When referring to Robert Burns affectionately, we call him Rabbie Burns.
Thank you, Ruth McLachlan
No offense meant, Ruth. And thanks for the tip. I’ll remember it henceforward.