INT. TORONTO AIRPORT - NIGHT

I hate flying. Not just because I hate being jammed with three people into a space meant for only one, but I hate trying to find my way around strange places where the signs all assume I know where I’m going. (One reason I don’t drive in Manhattan.) This moment I’m taking a breather after a bad scare, having lost my plane ticket to Glasgow among all the zippered pockets in my computer bag. There are several that look the same, and while I was trying to get a dry sandwich to somewhere in the vicinity of my face, I stuffed my papers into one of them and neglected to note which pocket. Imagine my panic when I looked in the other pocket and thought my ticket AND PASSPORT had been stolen. Ha ha. It’s right here. Oh, dopey moi.

 Coming through customs, I encountered probably the only surly Canadian in existence. She barked, “What are you doing in Canada?” I wanted to apologize for the intrusion, but instead informed her that I was just passing through.

 I just need to get off this continent and away from the planes. And into a right-hand-drive car. Right.

 On the plus side, I’ve gone through all the metal detectors I’ll need to for the next two weeks. British Customs, though, might be another story.

 NEW EXPERIENCE DEPARTMENT: Besides getting to show my passport, I used foreign money for the first time in my life. Canadian is, too, foreign!

 FUNNY THING I SAW DEPARTMENT: On the shuttle from the outlying terminal to the main terminal, we passed a sign that said, “Siamese connection -->”  I have no clue what it means, but it struck me as funny.

 INT. AIRPLANE - NIGHT

 SIGHTS I WON’T SOON FORGET DEPARTMENT: The barest hint of sunrise at 37,000 feet over the North Atlantic. A black sky filled with stars, and total blackness below, divided by the thinnest, barest hint of blue on the horizon. Then the blue widens and the colors change to pink, then orange and gold, then the sun appears in blinding white. At that point it reminded me of Stephen King’s THE LANGOLIERS.

 EXT. EDINBURGH’S WAVERLY STATION - DAY

 Stairs. Stairs and more stairs. I am stunned by the intense helpfulness of the people here. The stairs to get out of Waverly Station were dastardly, but it was the only way I knew for sure to Prince’s Street, which was the only street I could remember from the map I now can’t find. So I attempted them. After only one flight, a nice young gentleman and his girlfriend came to help me hoist my suitcase all the way to the top. I am in awe of all the people who have aided me in getting to where I’m headed. Not to mention the whiskery old Scottish lady next to me on the flight who told me all about her family in Canada, and who laughed at all my jokes and generally behaved more like a person than the old folks at home. Now I know why Dylan wanted to return to Scotland so bad.

 INT. OSBOURNE HOTEL - DAY

 I’m finally here, after more than 27 hours of almost no sleep. I was able to walk to the hotel from Waverly Station. I’m about to collapse, but once I’ve seen the room I feel better. I love this place! The room is taller than it is wide in either dimension. It’s a closet, not a room, but it reminds me of my first apartment in LA, so it’s home. I have to climb over the bed to get to the shelf where I’ve put my computer. The TV sits right next to it, so there’s no need for a remote. The nearly ceiling-to-floor window looks out over a church called “St. Paul and St. George.” I want to know why they didn’t go all the way and call it “St. Paul, St. George, St. John and St. Ringo.” (joke alert)

 Excuse me while I crawl into bed and go unconscious for about half a day.

 EXT. EDINBURGH - NIGHT

 I went for a walk to get my bearings and find some food. There are several nice pubs around here, and a comedy club down the street, but where did I end up eating? Burger King. I just wasn’t up for taking in another Experience today. It’s still Saturday, and I’ve had two or three hours of sleep. But the city at night is not to be believed, it’s so pretty and ancient. This place makes New York look like...well, NEW York. There is a hotel on the next block (The Balmoral?) that looks like a palace with a clock tower. On Princes Street one can see Edinburgh Castle lit up on the hill in the distance, looking all medieval and whatnot. What struck me about all these winding streets and alleys is that they’re all relatively clean. There are no smells of urine, and nobody sleeping on the sidewalks or under trees. ‘Course, the same thing is true about Hendersonville, but Hendersonville has only been a city for thirty years.

 Tomorrow I take a long walk.

 I couldn’t get the internet access to work (I suspect an inadequate phone line), so it’ll be at least a few days before I can post this, if then.

 I was finally able to call out (dial 9...duh), and talked to Dale. Nikki is sick, Travis stayed overnight at a friend’s house last night which is against the Mom’s Gone Rules, and everyone was freaking out about the train wreck in England a couple of days ago. Good thing I didn’t find out about it until I got here.

 INT. OSBOURNE HOTEL - NIGHT

 Not sleeping. Every time I drift off, someone coming from the pub downstairs starts shouting to his friends. There is a woman with a very lovely voice singing opera somewhere. In the past few hours I’ve heard more people singing in public than I heard the entire first year I lived in Nashville.

 INT. OSBOURNE HOTEL - DAY

 In the morning I am treated to Marlena Dietrich on the radio. That and a program telling me more than I ever wanted to know about the White House. I came to Scotland for this.

 BTW, that opera singing last night is explained by the discovery of a playhouse down the street that is running PHANTOM OF THE OPERA. I guess she’s going to be at it every night, twice on Sunday. I’m thinking about trying to get a ticket, but I’m not sure I’m up for a huge theatrical production.

 EXT. ROYAL MILE - DAY

 My. Feet. Are. Killing. Me. I started walking, to see how far it was to the Museum of Scotland which was the main attraction on my itinerary today. It wasn’t a bad walk, but I started way too early, and on a Sunday, so I got there three hours before it opened. Dang. So, looking at my guide book, I discovered something called the Lookout Tower, or somesuch, and went to kill some time. It worked. The tower had a nice view of the city, and the talk gave me a little bit of background on the development of Edinburgh, which will come in handy later on. Then, walking back to the museum, I passed all the shops that hadn’t been open before. So I went souvenir hunting. Found spoons for my sister and mother (I can’t explain it, they just like souvenir spoons, so I oblige), a wool scarf in the Ross hunting plaid, some other whatnots for people, and...see me smile...a brooch of the Matheson crest. The reason for smiling at this is that A) Matheson is not one of the better-known clans and B) just such a brooch figures in SON OF THE SWORD and I really like having nifty props like this while I’m writing. A young man helped me, then asked me where I’m from. I told him Tennessee, and his reaction was “That’s near Memphis, isn’t it?” I grinned, “Why, yes, Memphis is in Tennessee.” He turned all sorts of colors, laughed, and said, “Yes, well, it’s quite near, then, isn’t it?” But he was princely and found the Matheson crest pin for me, plus a scarf in the Ross hunting plaid.

 The museum made the entire Scotland trip worth while all by itself. I could finish this book tonight if I wanted to. It’s one thing to read about stuff, and it’s a whole ‘nother thing to see it and see how it does what it’s supposed to do. Right now it’s like a whole lot of things just came suddenly into focus. Also, I saw the actual sword on which I’d  based Dylan’s 20th century replica. I’d seen it in a book, and it was a gas to find it here.

 The walk back to York Place was a study in spending avoidance, but I managed. I think I blew about a hundred pounds today. And spent a lot of money, as well. But dinner at a pub (no real restaurants around here, just pubs that serve food) was  bangers and mash (sausages and mashed potatoes with gravy). Not half bad, considering the reputation British food has for being bland. And after this morning’s breakfast I was a believer in that.

 ODD STUFF DEPARTMENT: I’ve yet to see a bannock, or porridge on any menu. Maybe once I’m in the Highlands.

 Postcards go out tomorrow.

 EXT. EDINBURGH - DAY

 Did I say my feet hurt yesterday? I had no clue what feet-hurting was all about. Today, though, I got smart and took the North Bridge to the Royal Mile instead of going down past Waverly Station which involves climbing a winding close. Also, Chicago has nothing on Edinburgh for being a windy city. Those narrow closes and wyndes catch a good wind and send it screaming between the buildings.

 Today I set out for the Tolbooth. (Still haven’t seen the Castle, but it’s peripheral to my purpose.) The Tolbooth was a bit strange to see. It’s open to the public, but there is so little reference to its past before the ’45 and so little of the interior is original to the building, that it took quite a bit of imagination to figure out what it had been like in Dylan’s day. Fortunately I am up to the task. There was one cell preserved, which helped a lot, and it was apparent that the cells tended to be on the ground floor. The upper floors were fitted with nice hearths, so I took them for offices and whatnot.

 Next I walked to the other end of the road to check out Lady Stair’s House and Gladstone’s Land, both of them houses that A) were single-family homes preserved in their original layout and B) existed as such in Dylan’s day. I am so pleased with Lady Stair’s house I could just giggle. Forget Holyrood, this is a backdrop I can use. Gladstone’s place was mostly useful for its period accoutrements, and I learned from one of the guides that the spiral staircases I was seeing really were made of stone and were original to the houses. It flipped me out that stone could be fashioned as a spiral like that, but then I saw that each triangular step was a solid block set on top of the one before, then offset so that just enough overlapped, with the triangle point maintaining the center of the circle of the well. I suspect that an iron bar runs through each stone, because the point of the stone is rounded as if to accommodate something inside to align them.

 </architecture neep>

 I grabbed a ham, cream cheese and pineapple baguette to eat in my room, then walked h/o/b/b/l/e/d back to the room.

 I’m going to buy a sweater at some point, but must wait until I’m away from the tourist shops. I don’t want to buy a sweater then be stuck in Glenfinnan with no gas money.

 MEN IN KILTS COUNT: Four.

 I saw the most incredible kilt today. In the back it hung to his ankles, and he had the front tucked into his belt. His shoes were clunky workboots and slouching socks, and he walked with a long stride like a Tennessee Walking Horse.

 INT. OSBOURNE HOTEL - DAY

 The radio station I’ve found has Gaelic news in the morning, and I’m rather enjoying listening to the voices and picking out words here and there. I can even tell that the big story this week is the festival in Ft. William, because I keep hearing “An Gearasdan” (Ft. William). The other words I’ve picked out tend to be stuff like “agus” (and), “ach” (but),  “Dun Eideann” (Edinburgh), “sinne” (we, emphatic), “sinn fhein” (ourselves) “tigh-osda” (hotel), “cuideach” (also), “an-diugh” (today), “an-drasda” (just now) “bliadhna” (year) and “tha” (to be).

 SIDE NOTE: British television, on a daily basis, is stultifying. Next time I hear anyone rag on American TV, I’m going to laaaaaaaaaugh. The stuff they export might be fabulous, but the American Networks (just the networks, mind you), put out a lot more material, and most of it is at least watchable. Not so here.

 EXT. EDINBURGH - DAY

 I took a walk through Waverly Station this morning, to plan my route out of Edinburgh tomorrow. I find that I have no right turns between here and the edge of town, though I will have to make a U-turn at a tiny roundabout at the end of the Waverly Bridge as soon as I leave the station. I see on the map there’s a roundabout halfway to Dunblane (Sheriffmuir Battlefield), but it doesn’t look too complicated.

 Today I made the assault on Edinburgh Castle, making careful notes on which parts had been built by the time Dylan saw it. For part of the time I attached myself to a tour group that happened to be going in the same time I was, and I liked the tour guide. Straight off, he pointed to one of the statues outside the castle gate which was of William Wallace, and declared it to be Mel Gibson. “Mel Gibson is Scottish!” he declared. “I know he’s Scottish, because I’ve seen him in a kilt!” The joke being, of course, that William Wallace never wore a kilt because they didn’t come along for at least another three hundred years after his death. He had some other amusing remarks about one of the buildings in the square up top, “And this one goes all the way back...to the 1920’s!” Apparently the church which is there now was built eighty years ago out of stones from the dilapidated building that was there before, which they’d torn down.

 I saw the Stone of Scone. I figure it’s the real one, ‘cause it’s not broken. <;-}. The story of hiding the Honors from Cromwell struck me as great fun a/d/v/e/n/t/u/r/e.

 I was disappointed in that I missed seeing a garderobe. After all I’ve heard about the famous toilets by which this castle was invaded by Robert the Bruce’s army, I figured they’d be a featured attraction. But no, I couldn’t even find anything--a door, something--that looked like it might harbor a medieval toilet. Dang. But I did get a good look inside David’s Tower, which was a fabulous experience of being inside a structure built from tons of stone, where the lighting was about what one might expect from torches and candles. At the Royal Apartments gift shop I found a deck of Scottish personalities playing cards for my collection of unusual playing card decks. It’s a gorgeous set of cards, with drawings of people like MacBeth and James VI, somewhat like the Richard M. Nixon deck I have (with George Wallace as the joker.) Way cool.

 After the castle I went to the Edinburgh Central Library (across the street from the National Library, which requires a written request for admission and I wasn’t up for that), and spent a great deal of time reading stuff about the English Army during the reign of Queen Anne. Detail stuff, like pay and regimental structure. Stuff I couldn’t find in the US. During this, I took a break and had lunch at an Irish pub. I don’t much like bars, but the alternative around here is a takeout (takeaway) sandwich. I decided to take my time and figure out this pub thing, and so leaned against a wall and watched. A lot of people never sat down, but drank and talked standing up at the bar. One man stood and read his newspaper by the bar. I noticed that nobody waits on the tables. Instead, people give their orders at the bar and are given their drinks to take with them to the tables. If food is ordered, it’s then brought, but people schlep their own drinks. Okay, I can do that. The bartender was sweet. I watched him buzz around, waiting on people and whatnot, amazed that he could handle the entire place by himself. Lots of industrious, charming young men around here. I had the lamb stew, which was mostly stew and very little lamb. I’m glad I didn’t brave the haggis. There’s probably more meat in it, but that wouldn’t be a good thing.

 I took another look at the bookstore after the library, and found a book specifically on the transition between paganism and Christianity, called RELIGION AND THE DECLINE OF MAGIC. I pounced on it, and paid for it by Visa. It’s a Penguin book, but I think Penguin UK is separate from Penguin US. I wish I’d had this book three months ago.

 On my walk back to the hotel, I passed a piper outside the High Kirk of St. Giles. Guess what he was playing. No, not “Scotland the Brave,” the other one. Yes, it was “Amazing Grace.” When he segued into something I’d not heard before, I then gave him the change from my pocket (careful to be sure there were no pound coins). He was a good player, much better than the ones I heard in Murfreesboro last week.

 MEN IN KILTS COUNT: Six (not counting the castle tour guides, because that’s cheating).

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOUSE HOTEL, GLENFINNAN - DAY

 I am in Hootersveel! Welcome to the Shady Rest Hotel! “We don’t generally issue keys for the rooms because we’re sae quiet here.” The guy who helped me with my bags doesn’t work here. He also sold me a coke in the bar, but he doesn’t work here. Near as I can figure, Glenfinnan consists of this hotel, another hotel, an information center, a church, and a railway museum. Oh, the name of that guy who doesn’t work here? Duncan. I swear it. I’m less than fifty yards from the Shores of Loch Shiel.

Loch Shiel, looking south from the head near where Prince Charles landed in 1745

The road to get to this place is little more than a hole between the trees. My room is about twice the size of the one in Edinburgh, which means it’s still small. But the bed has springs, the comforter is thick, and the heater works when I want it to rather than when it’s in the mood, so at least I’ll be sleeping on this leg of the journey. There is no television. No tele-anything, in fact, and Dale is going to freak when he finds out he can’t call me.

 The drive here was not much worse than I’d expected. Getting out of Edinburgh was a nightmare. The place is like driving in Manhattan, only left-handed and with no logic to the layout. Every couple of blocks I found myself being shunted onto a wrong street, and finally one time couldn’t find my way back. I stopped at a Shell station for directions, and made it back to the road I’d needed in the first place. I figure I was lucky to get out of there without smacking into anything.

 The countryside is gorgeous, what I saw of it. Keeping on the left side of the road was a concentration-intensive project, and my tires kissed the curb twice going around left-hand curves. The roads here are pretty good, considering the people here didn’t know what a road was until two hundred years ago. But they’re still very narrow two-lanes with no shoulders and barely enough room for two small cars to pass. Add to this that people go tearing around on them at 70mph (yes, that’s miles, not kilometers), and zooming around the many curves can get hairy. For an American who can’t quite get over the idea that the oncoming traffic is going to want THIS lane, it was an intense day.

 I did manage to find the battlefield at Sheriffmuir, and learned exactly what I needed to know, but was somewhat disappointed in that I couldn’t walk it. Sometime during the past 284 years it was planted with a fir orchard so that it is now more thick with trees than any forest I’ve ever seen. (In recent years Scotland has been reforesting to make up for overlogging.) Oh, well. But I was able to walk some of it to see about footing and whatnot. Then I drove around to the Allan Water and got to see the muir from where the men started out that morning in Kinbuck, and found I could see the top of the muir. Good. I only have to make small alterations to my battle scenes.

 It would also seem that my descriptions of the fictional Glen Ciorram are dead on. I won’t even have to fool with those except to add some details of smells and small woodland creatures and whatnot. Small details. About 5,996 words worth of details.

 Lunch today was steak pie and chips with vinegar and salt. Extremely greasy, but extremely good. I stopped in Dunblane after my visit to Sheriffmuir, and found myself having to walk through the town in search of food, since parking on High Street was hard to find. Nothing seemed open. I came to a fish and chips place, looked at its opening times, then at my watch, and wondered why it didn’t look open. Then this lady came to the door to invite me in and offer to provide me with lunch as long as it was haggis or steak pie. Then she explained she was on her way to a funeral (which might explain why nothing else was open, too), but would be happy to help me out. I was grateful, and bought a steak pie, chips and a coke from her. I ate it in my car, and it was wonderfully greasy and hot. I was set for the trip north. (One thing I’ve noticed is that everything I’ve been served has been served extremely hot. This is a good thing.)

 So I’m here now, and settled in for the next week. I bought a coke from the bar downstairs (with extreme trepidation, having been gouged almost 6 pounds for one last night in Edinburgh, but this one was only 80 pence which is on par for a coke in the States), then bought another couple of cans to hang outside my window, tied in a scarf. My refrigerator isn’t as cold as the air outside here. They’ll be good and chilly any time I want to drink them. The place is filled with the smell of wood smoke and old, old construction. No phone? Oh, well. Dale is at home, and he can cope. No TV? This is Britain, so it’s no loss.

 MEN IN KILTS COUNT: Eight.

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOUSE HOTEL - NIGHT

 Okay, this is different. Bagpipes in the lobby. Now I know I’m not in Tennessee.

 EXT. FT. WILLIAM - DAY

 MEN IN KILTS COUNT: Oy, vei, they’re everywhere. Mostly old guys, and mostly performers at the Mod, but the town is crawling with them. I give up counting.

 Porridge for breakfast this morning, at last. Good stuff, Maynard. I refrained from putting sugar on it, and though it would take getting used to I can see where one (someone like Dylan) would like it.

 The drive into Ft. William was once again a white-knuckler, but only because I wasn’t sure of where the place was I was trying to find. Luckily, it was right on the road to Ft. William, so I was able to find a spot to park and go inside. The Royal National Mod is a huge festival, and seemed a lot like some of the handbell festivals I’ve been to. I was also reminded of the Ewan McGregor film “Brassed Off,” with all these choirs from little Scottish towns with their buses all parked around. I found the...well, the merchandise room for lack of a better term, where there were a LOT of books in Gaelic. I picked out three or four children’s books that looked interesting, and a small book that had the word “Chriosd” in the title so I figure it’s a gospel or something similar. I’ll study it and find out, I guess.

 I bought a membership in “Cothrom”, which gives me a subscription to a publication for supporters and learners of Gaelic, and the lady seemed delighted to see someone from the U.S. In fact, everyone there seemed a little surprised to find a Yank in their midst, and everyone was well pleased to talk to me about the progress Gaelic has made in the numbers of speakers over the past three decades. I stayed for a few choirs, but I’d missed the Highland dance competition yesterday and felt the need to accomplish other things in Ft. William. So, what, if I’ve got a whole ‘nother week? I might go back for the ceilidh tonight, or I might not. It starts at 11 p.m., and my sleep patterns are screwed up enough that I could get hurt really bad coming back 17 miles to the hotel at 1 a.m....left handed. We’ll see.

 So I went on into An Gearasdan...uh, Ft. William, and discovered to my delight that the map I’d picked up at the Mod Information Center had the old garrison marked on it. So I parked and walked. I’m getting good at this foot-travel stuff. But I was a bit distressed to see that one scene I’d written, where Dylan in the 20th century debates going past the garrison (bad memories), could never have happened. The way Ft. William is laid out there was no way he COULD have avoided going past the garrison if he’d TRIED. In fact, the road goes straight through where the old fort stood. So I’ve got some rewriting to do tonight.

 So, totally confused by the little bit of wall left from the destruction of the garrison, I went across the street to the public library and found some books with drawings of the layout of the fort, and a couple of drawings of buildings and walls. They’ve shed some light on how I’m going to have to adjust the scenes at the fort, but they will need further study to really nail the backdrop. That’s tonight, if I don’t go to the ceilidh.

 Having accomplished pretty much the rest of my purpose here, I found a phone booth to call Dale and let him know not to try to call me tonight. Then I went for lunch at McDonald’s (Shut up! It’s a Scottish name!). They gave me a game piece of some sort, and I won a Big Mac. Cool beans. It has turned out to be a gorgeous day in the Western Highlands, and straight ahead from the hotel one can see through the pass to Ben Nevis rising through some clouds. I’m breathless.

 Uh oh, sinus headache. No ceilidh tonight.

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOUSE HOTEL - DAY

 Getting a lot of work done. Shortly after noon I took a walk up the road to check out the church up there. It’s gorgeous, and must be more than two hundred years old. Maybe four. Lots of stone and stained glass. Back to work, now.

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOUSE HOTEL - NIGHT

 TV withdrawal! Help! Buffy! ER! West Wing! Nikita! I’ll even settle for Monty Python! Hellllllp!

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOUSE HOTEL BAR - NIGHT

 Tried ale. Better than beer, but it hasn’t converted me to drinking. The upside is that now I know why Dylan likes ale better than beer. The downside is that this is it for me and writing for today.

 Tomorrow night I do whiskey.

 While in the pub, I saw on the wall a caricature drawing I was told was of the hotel owner, his wife (Duncan’s parents) and some other locals, dressed in American Old West getup, captioned, “The Glenfinnan Gulch Gang.” I was tres amused. Duncan and his wife, Gail, are sweet and helpful people.

 EXT. FT. WILLIAM - DAY

 I’m more comfortable with driving now. I no longer panic at oncoming traffic. Yesterday I was ready to go home. I was bored, tired, stressed and had Scotland coming out my ears. Now I’m getting my second wind and think I’ll stay till at least Thursday.

 This morning Duncan directed me to a Faerie Knoll up the road. It’s an absolutely conical hill that looks like it was built of layers of stones, but for all I know it could be a natural occurrence. In any case, there are those around here who do believe in faeries, and the locals tell a story of an English couple who came to see if they were real. They were directed to the knoll, but found nothing. No faeries, just trees and whatnot. Being disappointed, on their way back to their car, they ragged on the faeries, angry that they’d been duped. As they spoke, there was a loud bang, and all the tires on their car blew. Nae faeries, indeed!

My tires are all intact, so I expect the faeries found my presence acceptable.

I took pictures of the ruins of the old garrison today, trying to figure out Dylan’s exact route out of there. The fort wasn’t as big as I’d anticipated. It’s going to be rough getting him out of there without having him spotted by every Sassunach in the place. I had lunch very near the place where Dylan meets Rob Roy. Shepherd’s pie for lunch. I’ve had more lamb than beef since my arrival, and I think it a good thing.

 I found my sweater, and for only 13 pounds. I also found some cheap books about faeries. I like cheap books.

 BLIND LEADING THE BLIND DEPARTMENT: While I was in the Ft. William train station buying a street map, I was approached by an elderly gentleman who wanted me to help him open the locker where he’d stored his luggage. Well, I didn’t want to be an ugly American, so I went to see if I could figure it out. Not too difficult, though. He was just flummoxed by the electronic security system they had instead of keys. He gave me his code card, and I entered it for him. Piece of cake. He told me he wished he could take me with him. I found that flattering, as I’ve felt as worthless as tits on a bull lately. Couldn’t even get a copy machine to work the other day at the Ft. William public library. This afternoon I needed to know what to call some grassy-but-not-grassy sort of stuff I’ve been seeing everywhere, and when I asked I was told, “Reeds. They’re just reeds.” The attitude was like, “What do you want to know that for?” Being a writer is difficult enough around people one knows, but when one is expected to be a Tourist and ooh and ahh over certain, expected things, the reactions from people make me hope I don’t see the men in white coats. They just can’t grasp that the histories are available everywhere in books, but the smells of wet bracken and the sights of toadstools EVERYWHERE are what I’ve come five thousand miles for.

 Found some  heather (it’s spongy growth, generally, and far too shallow to hide a man who isn’t hugging the ground like he’s in love with it). I also found some really creepy-looking fungus growing on an otherwise well-manicured lawn. It’s black on top and gray on the bottom, and grows in patches like crabgrass. I’ve never seen so much fungus and moss in all my life as I have these past few days.

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOUSE HOTEL - NIGHT

 I went downstairs to hear the bagpipe tonight. It’s quite a sight, with the owner of this hotel, Charlie MacFarlane, in his kilt, tweed jacket and sporran (with a little sgian dubh tucked into his stocking), stepping back and forth across the lobby, playing Not Amazing Grace. (I don’t know what it was, but as long as it’s not Amazing Grace or Scotland the Brave, I’m willing to like it.)

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOTEL - DAY

 Okay, it’s time to try the haggis. I’ve been avoiding it for a week and a half, and I can’t go home without at least trying it. I bought it in Ft. Wililam, with chips so I’ll still have something to eat if I hate the haggis. So I’ve tried it, and it’s not bad. However, I will say that it should never be eaten unless one is extremely hungry. It’s greasy, just like everything else around here, but spicy which is unusual. I think I even taste a little nutmeg. The oatmeal in it is cut rather than rolled (cut oatmeal is just now becoming available in the U.S. as a certain type of imported Irish oatmeal.) Like I said, it’s not bad, but it’s not something I could eat a lot of. Organ meats, you know. One wouldn’t want to eat a whole lot of fried chicken livers, either, and I like fried chicken livers.

 The chips were great. I think they should make malt vinegar available for french fries everywhere in the U.S., not just at Captain D’s.

 I finally found something to bring back for Dale. He said he wanted something to wear on the golf course that said something on it regarding Scotland and golf. Gee, could you be a little more specific, Dale? Anyway, I wandered into one of the few shops open today, and found one of those goofy golf hats, and it had exactly what Dale wanted. Something about a famous Scottish golf course, and a reference to golf being invented here. Okidoke, it’s his. Now my souvenir shopping is accomplished.

 This driving on the left business is getting easier. A lot has to do with driving the same road to and from Ft. William several times, but at least now I’m going as fast as everyone else. I’m sure the other drivers are as pleased as I am.

 I’m getting quite a bit of work done. I think I might have my minimum wordage knocked out by the time I get home.

 BTW, I’m beaucoup homesick.

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOTEL - NIGHT

 ACCIDENTAL TOURIST DEPARTMENT: I recommend when traveling on long trips alone, to take along a book written by a friend. Online withdrawal has been dastardly. I happen to have brought Keith’s THE XANDER YEARS (four-hour layovers in Toronto, thankyouverymuch), and spent some time this evening reading and Not Working. It was almost like listening to Keith tell a story, and so I felt just a little less homesick.

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOTEL LOBBY - DAY

 LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY DEPARTMENT: I just found out that “black pudding” is another word for “haggis.” Next time I get the urge to say, “I’ll try the black pudding,” I’ll know better. Though the stuff I had for breakfast was better than yesterday’s lunch. Perhaps for tomorrow’s breakfast I’ll have it again and cut it up with an egg, some tomatoes and beans. It’s really not half bad stuff when it’s diluted.

 INT. GLENFINNAN HOTEL BAR - NIGHT

 Vegetables au gratin for dinner. I knew there were some veggies somewhere in this country.  I ate the garnish because it was the first lettuce I’d seen in two weeks. Tonight I try the whiskey, but am saving it on my nightstand for when I’m completely done writing for the day. I am definitely not a drinker.

 When I get home I’m going to have a big cup of Diet Coke-flavored ice. And a pizza. With no meat.

 I’m about a thousand words from minimum. If I really haul butt tomorrow, I’ll have it before I leave here.

A sunny day in Scotland! Ben Nevis is yonder down the glen. It's said that Bonnie Prince Charlie raised his father's standard on the hill to the left.

INT. GLENFINNAN HOUSE HOTEL LOUNGE - DAY

 Finishing up the book, sitting before a cheery blaze in the hearth, surrounded by old wood, books and oriental carpet, looking out the window at the bracken-covered granite mountains over Glenfinnan and the monument commemorating the raising of the standard of King James VIII by Bonnie Prince Charlie. Which, said flag was reportedly planted on yonder hill. It’s cold outside, and cloudy, but inside there’s an English sort of warmth, where one hangs out by the fire and doesn’t wander too much in the far corners of the house. I am reminded of the cabin I lived in during high school, which for a time was heated entirely by a single fireplace. Hiding in one’s bedroom wasn’t an option back then.

 EXT. GLENFINNAN - DAY

 Well, I’m off. Easing onto the road on my way out of Glenfinnan, I just couldn’t help humming the opening bars of “Bonnie Portmore.” Homesick as I was, I wasn’t eager to leave. The drive back down to the Lowlands was pleasant enough, especially since I wasn’t as tense driving as I was on the drive up. My car is a cute one: a Fiat Brava, pearl blue. I’ve never driven an Italian car before. I’ve never thought of Fiat ever qualifying as an economy vehicle. Some of the countryside up here is not to be believed. I saw a cairn somewhere near Glencoe, and one stretch of road went past a stream that wandered gently across a rocky moor that was as bleak, yet wildly beautiful, as the Mojave Desert. I count myself lucky to have been able to see this.

 INT. DEAN PARK HOTEL, GLASGOW - DAY

 Wow, a hotel room that’s less than 200 years old! Room service! Television! Telephone! I feel like Dylan, returning to the 20th century.

 I’ve just made out my customs declaration list, and am bringing $323 worth of junk into the country tomorrow. Mostly bookses. I likes bookses.

 BWAHAHAHAHAHA DEPT.: I’m watching an English quiz show, and one of the questions is: “Gloria Graham once said, ‘I hate the sight of Ronald Reagan. I’d like to take my Oscar and stick it in his ear’. Is that true or false?” The answer? “False. She wanted to stick it somewhere else.”

 INT. AIR CANADA FLIGHT 842 AT 37,000 FT. - DAY     

 The sun is always out at 37,000 ft.

 The seat next to me is almost the only empty seat on this flight. God is smiling on me today.

 INT. TORONTO AIRPORT - DAY

 I still hate flying. I especially hate the international terminal of the Toronto Airport. Total zoo. It’s like the Canadian authorities don’t give a damn if you ever find U.S. Customs (Air Canada sends one through U.S. Customs at departure instead of on landing in the U.S. Don’t ask me why.) Once found, customs was a breeze.

 My body thinks it’s 9:30 at night, but my watch says it’s mid-afternoon. And Nashville time is even an hour earlier. I’ll be landing in Nashville at approximately 1:30 a.m. by the body clock.

 I’m home.

J. Ardian Lee