The skies of Scotland

Edinburgh, it was: Hogmanay with friends, fireworks, flying chinese lanterns, whisky, chips and not to forget the ceilidh with flying people and gallons of sweat! And men in kilts. Burns Night with bagpipes, haggis (I still stick to the veggie version, thanks), neeps and tatties, odes to lassies and laddies, to the (computer) mousie and to Rabbie himself. And more men in kilts. Bedlam theatre, various plays and rehearsals. Pubs and bins. Creepy and cool Ravenloftish architecture. Deep fried Mars bars - the magic treat with a reverse yuk-yum-effect. Mr. Whisky in every shape and size, such as whipped into cream, heated with honey or simply the good auld wee dram. And even more men in kilts and more bagpipes.


While I passed a good part of the month staring at a computer screen, thinking and typing until my brain and fingers went sore and my back grew a hunch, I somehow still managed to mount a hill or two every now and then. When we cycled up that first horrible mountain in Norway, Alice suddenly yelled out "This is like Scotland!". Now in Scotland it was my turn to scream "This is like Norway!" or at least like the first smooth mossy hills of Norway with rare patches of snow on it. The wind though managed to outperform the Sognefjellsvegen gusts that nearly blew me and my stallion off the road in July. A true Scottish gale will make an anchor a dire necessity for little girls, everyone else must man up and stay in the center of the hill.


And finally - the unforgettable crawling spaniard, featured first in La Ciotat about a year ago, who this time promptly decided to mimic the celebrities who leave their handprints on pavements and briefly planted his teeth into the ice of the Pentland hills. The teeth won 1:0.


Cheerio!