Do you really think that I would ever let you go? Do you think I'd ever set you free?

To heck with chronological order. It is definitely time I posted something - anything at all. Today was my last day in Edinburgh - pronounced Edin-burr-uh, roughly - and I largely wandered. My vision for the day was to climb Blackford Hill, seek out goods made in Scotland, then take advantage of the National Portrait Gallery’s late day and finish up their second floor.

Early start - check. Climbing, not so much. My knee was playing up something fierce and instead of crying in front of total strangers and their happy, muddy dogs, I walked instead of ascending. Then it - everyone together - ‘started raining’ - so pics are limited; mud, not so much.

I have never in america seen so many happy dogs. Everyone who is out has a dog (or two), and most of the time the puppy is off the leash, running about, playing with other people’s dogs, flushing ducks, getting wet and/or muddy, and having a generally splendid time. Seeing happy puppies makes me happy as well, and I am perfectly happy to kick a ball even if I am not willing to get up close and personal with the wet and muddy fur.

Still limping along miserably, I motivated myself with the fact that I’d bought a day pass for the bus and managed to make it back out to the road. I had researched breakfast options and had spotted the place on the way out so knew where I was going. I did mean to picture my breakfast - a ‘baby’ version of the full Scottish - but only remembered once I was a few bites in. It never seems worth it to take a picture if it’s no longer pristine. In the end, I was glad I didn’t, this place was weird - or at least the staff was weird. The food was good - and I had planned to linger much longer due to the fact that I wasn’t eager to walk anywhere, but the place was small so I revised quickly, I hate to take up room if I think people are waiting or a place I like is losing out, but...in the short time I was there - they broke two pieces of porcelain, and a scone flew through the air towards me and onto the floor, out of the blue - the only reaction to all this destruction was laughter. I also did not get the orange juice promised with my menu selection, and had to wait to pay; first as a take-out customer waited by the till, then as the only available staff member - took an order - something no one had done since I had walked in, everyone was ordering at the till, so this was all very weird and I’m not sure I want to endorse the place. The food was good, it was just a really strange sort of feel this small room had.

Anyway, I took the bus back into the city, armed with a list of places which purportedly sell goods ‘made in Scotland’. This has been quite a challenge. As an idiot american said during my visit, ‘There are plaid scarves everywhere.’ And as I said to my hostess, ‘I would hate to bring back a bag of things made in China.’

It is expensive to manufacture things in Scotland. My hostess opines that there is great creativity, pottery creation, and weaving occurring in the Islands. Here in Edinburgh, a store that has lovely things, by the name of Ness, takes tartan which is created and woven in Scotland and sends it out to be made into purses and other goods at a price they can afford to pay and make a profit - is this ‘made in Scotland’ or not?. My hostess also relates that there is an unsavory element which has taken over some shops on the Royal Mile - unsurprising to my mind - over the last five to ten years. Foreigners, selling substandard goods - specifically kilts - driving the real shops out of business because they are selling ‘kilts’ at an unsupportable, and frankly ridiculous price point. Shades of Wal-Mart, anyone?

I’m going to end just that abruptly, because there is no neat answer to any of this. I have to get up to go to the airport in seven hours, and my kitties are reportedly impatiently tapping their little paws and checking their non-existent wrist-watches, awaiting my return. I have bought quite a few fabrics which I hope were actually made in Scotland so that said kitties can gleefully lay upon them as I protest that, ‘I was just about to...sigh...oh well...’ and before they can get there, these fabrics are mostly in charge of cushioning a couple bottles of whisky - sshhhh - don’t distract them...

Do you really think that I would ever let you go? Do you think I'd ever set you free?

To heck with chronological order. It is definitely time I posted something - anything at all. Today was my last day in Edinburgh - pronounced Edin-burr-uh, roughly - and I largely wandered. My vision for the day was to climb Blackford Hill, seek out goods made in Scotland, then take advantage of the National Portrait Gallery’s late day and finish up their second floor.

Early start - check. Climbing, not so much. My knee was playing up something fierce and instead of crying in front of total strangers and their happy, muddy dogs, I walked instead of ascending. Then it - everyone together - ‘started raining’ - so pics are limited; mud, not so much.

I have never in america seen so many happy dogs. Everyone who is out has a dog (or two), and most of the time the puppy is off the leash, running about, playing with other people’s dogs, flushing ducks, getting wet and/or muddy, and having a generally splendid time. Seeing happy puppies makes me happy as well, and I am perfectly happy to kick a ball even if I am not willing to get up close and personal with the wet and muddy fur.

Still limping along miserably, I motivated myself with the fact that I’d bought a day pass for the bus and managed to make it back out to the road. I had researched breakfast options and had spotted the place on the way out so knew where I was going. I did mean to picture my breakfast - a ‘baby’ version of the full Scottish - but only remembered once I was a few bites in. It never seems worth it to take a picture if it’s no longer pristine. In the end, I was glad I didn’t, this place was weird - or at least the staff was weird. The food was good - and I had planned to linger much longer due to the fact that I wasn’t eager to walk anywhere, but the place was small so I revised quickly, I hate to take up room if I think people are waiting or a place I like is losing out, but...in the short time I was there - they broke two pieces of porcelain, and a scone flew through the air towards me and onto the floor, out of the blue - the only reaction to all this destruction was laughter. I also did not get the orange juice promised with my menu selection, and had to wait to pay; first as a take-out customer waited by the till, then as the only available staff member - took an order - something no one had done since I had walked in, everyone was ordering at the till, so this was all very weird and I’m not sure I want to endorse the place. The food was good, it was just a really strange sort of feel this small room had.

Anyway, I took the bus back into the city, armed with a list of places which purportedly sell goods ‘made in Scotland’. This has been quite a challenge. As an idiot american said during my visit, ‘There are plaid scarves everywhere.’ And as I said to my hostess, ‘I would hate to bring back a bag of things made in China.’

It is expensive to manufacture things in Scotland. My hostess opines that there is great creativity, pottery creation, and weaving occurring in the Islands. Here in Edinburgh, a store that has lovely things, by the name of Ness, takes tartan which is created and woven in Scotland and sends it out to be made into purses and other goods at a price they can afford to pay and make a profit - is this ‘made in Scotland’ or not?. My hostess also relates that there is an unsavory element which has taken over some shops on the Royal Mile - unsurprising to my mind - over the last five to ten years. Foreigners, selling substandard goods - specifically kilts - driving the real shops out of business because they are selling ‘kilts’ at an unsupportable, and frankly ridiculous price point. Shades of Wal-Mart, anyone?

I’m going to end just that abruptly, because there is no neat answer to any of this. I have to get up to go to the airport in seven hours, and my kitties are reportedly impatiently tapping their little paws and checking their non-existent wrist-watches, awaiting my return. I have bought quite a few fabrics which I hope were actually made in Scotland so that said kitties can gleefully lay upon them as I protest that, ‘I was just about to...sigh...oh well...’ and before they can get there, these fabrics are mostly in charge of cushioning a couple bottles of whisky - sshhhh - don’t distract them...