Road Diary
July 1999 -- Part XI
Linlithgow Palace, Western Islands, & Damned Duvets
By Dick Sutphen

JULY 5, MONDAY: Surely this tea-instead-of -coffee-in-the-morning Brit thing will abate once we return to California. But what if it doesn't? Tara and I will be the only people in LA taking their morning caffeine without coffee.

Thankfully, I'm not seriously addicted to anything else that will be an embarrassment at home. Not so with my wife. Tara's becoming addicted to the Scottish weather. "Daily rain keeps you from getting wrinkles," she says.

"You've got to be kidding?"

I love Scotland despite the weather, certainly not because of it. The choice of balmy, year-round, palm-tree weather AND a few extra wrinkles, OR constant rain, bitter-cold winters AND less wrinkles ...

Well, wrinkles win hands down.

Today is a work day. It's sunny and warm, so we should be off exploring the Scottish world. Instead, we've set up temporary offices in the cafe overlooking the city swimming pool. Hunter and Cheyenne enjoy the many pool offerings while Tara reviews astrology charts and I read the paper and write. Once my wife has someone's birth data, their life is an open book. The better she gets, the more accurately she interprets past lives through the chart. She shares some interesting information about a chart she's working on.

I ask a few questions about reading past lives in the chart.

"Your past is so clear using this method. You were a freedom fighter in your last life, and you've carried it forward by teaching liberation in this life."

 She shows me things, points, explains in more detail. But she might as well be a Glaswegian speaking Glaswegian.

"I believe you."

Speaking of Glaswegians, these are people from Glasgow, and most tend to speak fast in a thick brogue combined with slang terms unique to the western region. I think the guy on the swimming pool microphone has just emigrated from Glasgow.

"Aba wa mac abdova ta sta on minatava."

"What did he say?" I ask Tara.

"The wave machine is going to start in one minute."

"You didn't understand him say that." The wave machine starts.

"Ut a jutin fookin gil babliaa."

"What did he say?"

"The kids have ten more minutes."

Or the guy with the mic could be from Aberdeen. Several years ago, we spent New Year's Eve at Ardoe House in Aberdeen. We arrived by train, hailed a cab and I told the driver our destination. He responded in a babble we couldn't begin to identify. Not a word. I shrugged, apologized for not speaking Aberdeenean, and wrote down the address.

"Aye, aye," he said. "Abucka de fa delcraign la feekin de." 

I later found out this is called a Doric Scot accent.

Evidently in the 1780's the people of fashionable Edinburgh decided to expurge all traces of the heavier burr and lilt from their speech. And they were quite successful, thus separating themselves from those who lived in the Highlands and other rural areas of Scotland.

Going through my writing notes: I'm delighted at how well we've all adapted to being together around the clock. Tara and I have done this for 16 years, but for the parent/children dynamic to work out as well as it has, is something to celebrate.

Hunter's personality and needs are easiest for me to understand, while Tara relates a bit better to Cheyenne's way of being. But Hunter leans into Tara's wacky sense of humor and Cheyenne always takes my hand to help her remain out front and ahead of everyone else. We all co-exist easily and act as natural buffers for each other when someone has ruffled feathers.

The hardest adaptation for me has been lack of music. At home I play it loud in my home writing studio, my car, my office. But Tara doesn't care for my folk-rock and Austin Americana music any more than I do her rock and "Lilith-Fair" sounds. Thankfully, we share a joint appreciation of some rockers, bagpipes and traditional music, which we play at moderate levels. We each listen to our favorites on headphones.

The Queen is still in Edinburgh, which is causing the city to twitch a bit. During a Royal Army Ordnance Corps check on George Street, one of their security sensors went off near a parked car bearing Irish plates. The police immediately evacuated businesses and flats along the road, then cordoned off the street until explosive experts could examine the car. In turn, the authorities proceeded to blow up the vehicle with three controlled explosions.

"It was a false alarm with good intentions," said a police spokesman.

The owner of the obliterated car was an Irish woman who now lives in Scotland. She parked the vehicle while shopping on Princes Street.

In another newspaper story, a man whose crime was to pee on public property, was sentenced to stand at the scene of his crime for several hours holding a sign confessing and apologizing.

The poor guy probably didn't have any change. You see, in the UK, in most public locations, you must pay to pee. It costs 20 pence to use city toilets, train station toilets, et cetera.

I'll end this by echoing back to my rant about Brit networks sending investigative reporters to America. As I'm wrapping this day's road diary, Tara has turned on Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends. This from a woman who never watches TV at home, let alone anything remotely resembling a wrestling program scheduled for tonight. Her justification: she likes Theroux's "sarcastic intellectualism." Those are not the words I'd use to describe this guy's reporting techniques, but here's what the newspaper listing has to say about tonight's show: "Theroux presents a journey through the American fringe. In this edition Louis explores the world of American wrestling. He spends time with the wrestlers of Monday Night Nitro, a weekly cable extravaganza, and has the opportunity to put searching questions to the trainers."

What must the TV viewers really think about Americans? Another host recently said, "Because this started in the states, of course the crazy Americans took it further than anyone could have imagined ... further than they should."

JULY 6, TUESDAY: LINLITHGOW PALACE.

First stop is a health food store, where supplements I purchase for $5 at home cost $20 for half the dosage. And health food stores are few and far between compared to California.

Next stop, Waverly Station, where we catch a train to Linlithgow about 20 minutes out of Edinburgh -- about half way between Stirling and the capital city. Our destination is Linlithgow Palace, a four-block walk from the train station.

St. Michael's parish church sits outside the outer wall of the palace. The church was built between 1424 and 1535, but atop the bell tower they've added a stainless steel crown that looks like either the nose cone of a Victorian rocket ship or many crossed swords, take your pick. And it looks like this afterthought was added last week. They obviously wanted this tower to stand out from all others. Even shooting past Linlithgow on the express train, you can't help seeing the silhouette against the skyline. "Oh, yeah, the tweaky tower, we're going through Linlithgow."

I can't help thinking about the town planners -- the original meeting that took place between the decision makers of Linlithgow.

Planner # 1: "Well, we're in possession of one of the 100 most important tourist sites in Scotland -- the birthplace of James V and Mary Queen of Scots. We need to do a better job of promoting the palace."

Planner # 2: "The palace is about history, you know. An old image. Linlithgow is a modern city and we need to project the image of a forward-thinking community."

Planner #3: "Agreed. Couldn't we sacrifice a wee bit of the architectural integrity for the sake of commerce?"

Planner # 1 & 2: "Yes, yes, how do we do that?"

Planner #3: "We'll hire an artist to create a contemporary sculpture to sit atop the 500-year old tower as a statement -- 'Linlithgow is a modern city with a historic past.'"

Planner # 1 &2: "Brilliant. Tourists will flock to the palace."

Unless of course they don't.

In all fairness, I must share my wife's opinion here. She likes the bell-tower topping and thinks it looks like knight's swords crossed in a united stance.

Beyond the parish church, we still can't see the palace. The outer gate is impressive. Chiseled in stone above the entrance are the crests of the four orders of chivalry to which Scottish King James V belonged. Emerging from this tunnel-like gate, we get our first look -- a limited but breath-taking view of Linlithgow Palace.

"It looked big in pictures, but not THIS big."

The white-haired woman collecting the entrance fee of £2.50, tries to talk us into buying a Historic Scotland pass to many castles. We say no. She tries again. We say no. She keeps trying. No, no, no. This woman really wants to win the July pass-seller's contest.

A short castle history: The first recorded reference to the site is in 1301, when Edward I, the "Longshanks," used the original structure as his base of operations for invading Scotland. The early castle was almost entirely of earth and wood surrounded by a deep ditch and stockade. Located near Blackness harbor and atop a natural hillock, the site was ideal for military purposes. During the siege of Stirling Castle in 1304, Linlithgow was used as the main English supply base.

After Robert the Bruce's successful Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, the castle returned to Scottish hands. King James I began to build the existing stone palace in 1425. James II and III added to the structure. James IV transformed the castle into a royal residence -- a magnificent palace, the north range being six stories high with a beautiful fountain in the courtyard.

James V was born at Linlithgow in 1513, as was his daughter Mary Queen of Scots in 1542. The palace continued to be handed down through generations until English Duke of Cumberland ("the Butcher") billeted here in February 1746 while chasing Bonnie Prince Charlie north. As Cumberland's forces marched out, the palace was burned, leaving it in the ruined state we find it today.

But thanks to some restoration and many surviving stone floors, we visit dozens of rooms, from various kitchens, to the great meeting hall where the huge fireplace was restored in 1906. Bed chambers and the supposed birthplace of James V and Mary are labeled. One round-tower staircase rises several stories above the rest of the palace.

After taking pictures and video, on the way out Tara and Cheyenne visit St. Michael's parish church. Hunter and I proceed to the bottom of the castle hill and have tea in a quaint little tea shop.

Walking through the main streets of Linlithgow, we can't find any place to eat other than smoke-filled bars. We like bar food, but none of us can take another meal eaten in a cigarette-smoke haze. Maybe instead of the rocketship bell tower, the city fathers might have been better served by underwriting a major restaurant in the heart of downtown.

JULY 7, WEDNESDAY: THE ISLES OF MULL, IONA AND STAFFA

We awaken to a 5:30 AM alarm and are on board a 7:30 train to Glasgow where we transfer to a train to Oban. This time we consulted a schedule to make the proper connections for our journey through the Highlands. Tara and I try to take in every detail of the landscape as we shoot along the western "bonnie banks" of Loch Lomond -- Scotland's longest lake. The stations appear and disappear, Crainlarich, Dalmally, Loch Awe, Falls of Cruachan, and Connel Ferry. We arrive in Oban right on time: 11:30 AM.

The Royal is the third hotel we try before finding a room. They have a large fourth-floor corner room that will sleep the four of us. Breakfast is included. The room looks out on the harbor. We don rain gear and take to the streets. This isn't an ideal day to go out to the islands, but as I've said before, you can't plan your Scottish activities around the weather.

The original plan was to go to the islands this afternoon, then return to Edinburgh tomorrow. But it's too late to see all that we want to see. If we leave early in the morning on a loosely organized tour, we can take in three islands in about 10 hours. But the ferry boat won't return until after the last train leaves Oban, so we'll have to stay another night.

It never stops raining. We walk the town, recalling our 1996 Oban trip to investigate the surrounding MacDonald and Campbell country. Hunter finds a huge magazine stand and asks us to pick him up on the way back to the hotel. Tara shops for souvenir gifts for family back home. Most of the shops offer variations of woolen and tartan products. The economy is clearly based upon tourism.

Back at the hotel, Hunter and Cheyenne are happy to hang out in the room. We go down to the bar. While Tara is arranging for some food to be sent up to the children, I get into a conversation with a guy at a nearby table. He has heard my accent and apologizes for the sour woman tending bar. "How can you be here for two months?" he wonders.

I explain that we're combining work and play by writing about Scotland for the Web -- words that will hopefully become a Scottish travelogue book.

"I hope you're writing about us with an open heart," he says.

"I am," I assure him.

Tara returns. We find ourselves in the middle of preparations for a "Quiz Show." The place is filling up with local residents who are excited to pit their knowledge against each other. The host offers us the chance to join in. Teams can be one to five players.

"We'll just observe, but thank you," I say.

The single-malt from the local Oban distillery is very much my taste in whisky. We need to take some home. Tara sips red wine and gets into answering the questions. "Name the three major US national parks."

"Yosemite, Glacier, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon," Tara says.

"That's four," I say. "Which one doesn't qualify as major?"

 Most of the Scots playing the game seem to be befuddled.

But the next question has do with things British and we're befuddled.

I can't believe our quiet drink has turned into a quiz show. But that's what is. We easily answer the US questions, but are at a loss on most of those relating to Brit film, music and personalities. Now if the questions were about British history, I could probably beat the locals.

"Let's go back to the room and play our own games in the bathroom while the children watch TV," Tara whispers.

JULY 8, THURSDAY: 7:30 AM: I emerge from the bathroom, my hair still dripping from the shower, to find my naked wife leaning out the fourth-floor window, calling in seagulls. In her hand is a package of McVitie's Digestive Biscuits.

"Come on Spotty, Whisky, come on ... "

This is deja vu. Three years ago.

First one seagull lands on the window sill, then two, then three. And they're fighting among themselves, screeching and shrieking and devouring the McVitie's.

I will forever regret not grabbing the video camera and capturing this event for posterity. Tara's buns bouncing, as she talks seagull language and flicks biscuits.

Soon Hunter and Cheyenne are awake and now everyone is feeding seagulls. I even feed a few myself. More and more birds flock to the window, fighting and shrieking, which of course attracts ever greater numbers of feathered friends. Tara teaches one especially aggressive bird to eat from her hand. As a reward, he gets our stash of carmel biscuits.

"Not the carmel biscuits."

"We can get more."

The digestive biscuits are gone, the chocolate biscuits the hotel provided with the coffee service are gone, even some mints that have been in my coat pocket for months are gone. And more and more hungry birds are arriving.

"It's beginning to look like an Alfred Hitchcock movie out there."

By the time we leave the room to have breakfast, the birds have been promised toast, rolls, cereal, and whatever else my family can smuggle out of the breakfast buffet.

An hour later, we return to the room to see dozens of gulls on the rooftop of the building across the street. They're all watching our window.

This fascination with gulls on the sill is an Oban phenomena. As Cheyenne pointed out at breakfast, at home in Malibu, gulls are a pain in the backpack. At school, the children leave their backpacks outside the classrooms. The gulls open any pack not fully zipped and steal the kid's lunches.

It is warm and sunny this morning, so we're glad we waited until today to visit the islands. We are, however, carrying plenty of rain gear because these islands are among the wettest on the Scottish coast. The Caledonian MacBrayne Ferry pulls away from the Oban docks at 10 AM for a 40-minute trip across the Firth of Lorn to the Isle of Mull -- the largest island of the Inner Hebrides. We settle into comfortable seats, read the newspaper and glance out the windows to monitor our progress. In the ship galley, Tara buys sandwiches for a picnic on the Isle of Staffa. Small boats can dock at the island in calm weather, so today there is a good chance for a personal visit.

Five minutes prior to our arrival in Craignure, we have a perfect view of Duart Castle on a jut overlooking the coastal approaches to Mull from the southeast. If you saw the film Entrapment, Sean Connery flies Catherine Zeta-Jones to this castle in a helicopter. The most famous story relating to Duart Castle involves the chief of Clan Maclean who bound and left his wife to drown on rocks to be flooded by the incoming tide. Unknown to Maclean, the woman was rescued by passing fishermen who took her to the castle of her nobleman father. When Maclean went to his father-in-law to tell him of the drowning, his wife was presented to him alive. Maclean was executed.

When the Maclean's supported the Stuarts in the Jacobite risings, the Duke of Argyll sacked the castle and left it in ruins until 1912, when it was restored by Maclean ancestors. Today it is open to the public for viewing at a nominal fee.

"Our Campbell ancestors may have destroyed the castle?" The children don't know what to think about that.

Upon disembarking the ship, we board a bus that carries us the full length of the island, from Craignure to Fionnphort. The Isle of Mull is literally 40 shades of green, wild and mountainous, with sea lochs, sand bars, moorland, bog, and 300 miles of coastline.  The highest mountain is Ben More at 3,169 feet. This morning the mountain top is shrouded in mist. 

The bus driver is a bit burned out. He wants people to listen to him and not talk among themselves. After he tells us for the fourth time how difficult it is to drive and talk at the same time, and how he has a sore thorat, I'm beginning to wish we had skipped the tour. The road is a narrow one-lane strip with turnouts every hundred yards. So someone has to give to allow the other vehicle to pass. I'm impressed by the politeness of the drivers. The bus has to slow for sheep and stop for escaped Highland cattle.

We do learn from the driver that the population of Mull is half of Gaelic heritage and half Nordic, as a result of ancient Viking raids. The driver also explains that the government has planted the millions of Sitka Spruce trees we see covering the foothills.

The landscape calls out for you to get off the bus, whittle a walking stick, and head up into the hills. Tara and I whisper about how much fun it would be to return and do just that. Backpack and camp for a week in these hills and valleys.

At Fionnphort, we board a small boat for a 35-minute ride out into the North Atlantic to the Isle of Staffa. Tara is sitting in the front of the boat where it is difficult to see anything, so the young pilot invites her up to the bridge so she can see out the front windows. Hunter joins her.

They get into a "where are you from" conversation. The pilot and his mate were both born on Iona. He tells Tara that we're making this trip on one of the finest possible weather days. "Yesterday it was terrible out here," he says. 

Later I tease her, "The pilot liked ya."

"Aye," she says.

The attraction of Staffa is a wondrous work of nature -- a gigantic sea cave called "Fingal's Cave" (230 feet deep, 60 feet high and 17 feet wide). The cave and much for the island looks man made of huge hexagonal columns, each exactly like all the others. This effect is the result of flows of lava coming into contact with colder bedrock, combined with the chilling effects of northern Scotland weather.

We have a picnic of sandwiches and Irn-Bru on the grassy hilltop while looking out at the incredible view of other islands. We have a little over an hour to explore on our own. Stomachs full, we make the climb down to view the cave from outside and within.

In 1832, Mendelssohn wrote Fingal's Cave Overture after visiting the site. Queen Victoria's personal journal entry about a visit was fascinating to me:

"As we rounded the point, the wonderful basaltic formation came in sight. The appearance it presents is most extraordinary; and when we turned the corner to go into the renowned Fingal's Cave, the effect was splendid, like a great entrance into a vaulted hall; it looked almost awful as we entered, and the barge heaved up and down on the swell of the sea. The rocks, under water, were all colors -- pink, blue and green -- which had a most beautiful and varied effect. It was the first time the British standard with a Queen of Great Britain, and her husband and children, had ever entered Fingal's Cave, and the men gave three cheers, which sounded very impressive there . . ."

The next leg of our journey is back across the sea to the Isle of Iona -- the ancient holy island. As Iona Abbey comes into view, the boat pilot says, "The Vikings didn't think much of Christianity, so they regularly slaughtered the monks and destroyed the buildings."

The history books claim that Columba, exiled from Ireland, landed on Iona in 563. From here he focused his piety and fervor upon a campaign to Christianize the islands and Highlands of Scotland.

Walking up the street from the docks, the first ancient structure we see is the remains of a nunnery, which was founded in 1203. While the children eat ice cream cones, Tara and I explore what remains of the building. Some arches of the cloisters survive, but there is very little to see here. Tara, however, does sense great peace in one area within the walls.

A few blocks down a rural-village street we come to the entrance of Iona Abbey. The lady at the admission gate looks like she is about to faint. "You're very flushed," I say.

"Oh, my yes, isn't the heat terrible," she says.

The temperature is probably 75 degrees. This is our first clue that some Scots don't do well in even moderate heat.

The abbey as it is today, dates back to 1420 when it was rebuilt after 50 years of neglect. When the last abbot died in 1499 the monastery was little used for 400 years and fell once more into disrepair. Early in this century, the Duke of Argyll meticulously restored the structure. In 1979, the land was gifted to the National Trust of Scotland. 

Sixty kings, both of Scottish and Norse origin are buried in the abbey graveyard, including Duncan (1010-40) and Macbeth (1005-57).

While Tara and Cheyenne explore the grounds and structures with great interest, Hunter and I sit outside on a bench overlooking the sea. The Road Less Traveled author M. Scott Peck says that he found Iona to be the most peaceful place he ever visited. This opinion from such a prominent teacher, would in itself be reason enough for me to want to visit.

But the abbey, nunnery and other trappings of the island are Christian, which never generates any sense of well being within me. After a quick look through the abbey, I'm quite content to relax and enjoy the view and sunny afternoon.

Later, I ask Tara if she senses any special peace here. "Oh, no," she says. "I sense the energy of power struggles."

We take a small ferry back to the Isle of Mull, then the bus across the island to connect with the big ferry. At 8 PM we're back in our Oban hotel. The entire trip has taken 10 hours and was well worth the £29 fee for adults, £15 for children.

After showering and watching the TV news, Tara and I go out dressed only in T-shirts to enjoy what is left of the evening. Inhaling deeply, I decide the scent of the sea generates peace within me. It is the same here as it is at home in Malibu, and the same as it was in our early years together, when we played in Mexico on the beaches of the Sea of Cortez.

Tonight we stroll the streets hand in hand, and shop at one of the few stores remaining open. My wife purchases a couple family gifts and a sweater for herself. We stop at The Cellar Bar for a drink, but the atmosphere and cigarette haze isn't conducive to lingering.

Along the docks, crews are cleaning their boats. The smell of diesel reminds me of our days in the late 80s on a Silver Eagle entertainer's bus, traveling all over America on a 35-city tour. Watching sailors scrub the decks is peaceful and hypnotic. As the sun sets beyond the distant islands, all of Oban turns golden orange. We end our day by walking through the train station to check the schedule for tomorrow. The 1:20 PM train sounds best.

JULY 9, FRIDAY: The breakfast buffet provided by the Royal Hotel offers full-course Scottish fare, plus cereals, fresh fruits and yogurts. I'm becoming very fond of potato scones -- thin little triangles of wheat and potato that we toast at the apartment. This morning, I find myself skipping the baked beans and tomato and loading up on more scones. Our waitress brings pots of tea and coffee, and a tray of toast.

I know better than to reach for a piece of the toast. The three people I'm eating with inform me the toast is reserved for seagulls. By the time we check out, the window sill in our room looks as if a war has taken place here: feathers, bird blood, scattered crumbs, and a half-inch of Wetabix -- a cereal I can tell you from experience, seagulls won't eat.

"Let's stow our backpacks and loot in a train-station locker."

"Agreed."

We shop, sightsee and generally enjoy the sunny T-shirt morning. Lunch in a tea shop is a mistake for Hunter and I. The menu offers only dainty sandwiches. The shop is filled with older ladies. Obviously, Oban males know of better lunch options.

For the second time since our arrival in the UK, I pick up a copy of USA Today in the train station. Here, USA is a thin little newspaper at a cost of nearly $2. Hardly worth it, but I am interested in news from home. The only US news reported in the Scottish papers relate to major Clinton happenings and preparations for the Gore/Bush election campaign. Hillary Clinton's run for a NY senate seat is especially interesting to the Brits. The Scottish tabloid I purchased this morning did a report on Jack Nicholson's auto accident in California yesterday.

Of course, all papers are reporting on the Star Wars Episode I phenomena. The film seems to be running promotional tie-ins with every second company in Scotland, which appears a tad excessive for a country of only five-million people. I don't have population figures from home, but Scotland is probably about the size of San Diego County.

The train stations on the Oban to Glasgow ScotRail run are listed in Gaelic as well as English, unless the name of the town is already Gaelic. It's hot traveling, even here in the Highlands, but top windows open and the high speed forces fresh air inside.

On the Glasgow to Edinburgh train, we're lucky to find seats. Many young men stand in the alcove between cars. Tara tells me she thinks this crowd is grouchy due to the heat. True, they were pushy at the station. Not at all like the Scots we're used to. Many people are fanning themselves. Some have the look of scared rabbits. I guess they wonder what has happened to their world. It's supposed to be cool and drizzling, not 78 degrees with an alien shiny orb visible in the sky.

In the seats across from us, two mothers begin to feed their kids chocolate candy. One baby is about a year old, the other maybe two. Tara and I look at each other. Mistake. The children have been well behaved and happy in mama's lap, but as the chocolate settles in the transformation begins. The two-year old leaps to freedom and begins to run screaming up and down the crowded aisle. Trying to balance as he propels himself through the swaying car, his little chocolate-covered fingers grab at the dark suits of the men carrying briefcases. This of course, sets off the younger kid. Howls and screeching rise to a crescendo pitch. The two mother's look at each other, dismayed. The hot passengers are clearly in no mood for this.

Then the train breaks down.

The breakdown is covered the following day in Scotland on Sunday. Beneath a large color photo of the chairman of parliament's transportation committee standing in Queen Street station, is the headline, PASSENGERS ARE LEFT HOT AND BOTHERED. The following is a partial excerpt:

"The faulty doors led to the 15:00 service from Edinburgh to Glasgow being canceled. However, things were to get worse. Although more carriages had been added to the 16:30 service from Glasgow to Edinburgh, it ran into problems at Polmont. Again the problem was the faulty doors. After a 10-minute wait at the station, and without any announcements as to the reason for the delay, passengers were shunted on to the platform and told the door problem had recurred and a local service would take them to Edinburgh.

"But five minutes later they were told they could get back on board as the train was now in working order. It arrived at Waverly Station almost 30 minutes late.

"A ScotRail spokesman said there had been problems on the route throughout the day, admitting: 'We just don't have enough trains.'"

Next to this story is another with a 72 pt. headline: Harassed MSPs tell ScotRail to get a move on. The new Scottish Parliament is warning the train company to improve their service, or else!

Upon reboarding the "refugee train" as someone calls it, we find seats far from the sugar-fueled children. The fact that a minor train incident has resulted in a major story in Scotland's primary national newspaper, amazes me. With this exception, we have never felt crowded and from what we've seen, they have an abundance of wonderful trains. Many of the rural runs must be subsidized for they don't carry enough passengers to justify operation.

Maybe, as an American who has been on the road for over 20 years, I have diminished expectations when it comes to travel. When I tell Brits how I admire their rail system, they shake their heads and say, "Do you really think this is good?"

"The trains are clean, comfortable and on time to the minute," I say. "At home, nothing is on time to the minute."

"They could be so much better," I'm told.

After the Dumbarton station, the tracks run along a sea-water loch for many miles. The land is usually beneath water, but now, exposed to the sun, it stinks and the smell fills the train, further agitating the passengers.

We have taken cabs from Waverly Station on dozens of occasions in our years of coming to Scotland. On every occasion, people queue in a line and are picked up in the order of their arrival. But today there is no queue, only chaos. Must be the heat, although where I come from 78 degrees isn't hot. I'm always willing to queue, but if the game is chaos, I play it well. This usually results in Tara telling me my French blood is surfacing. My paternal grandmother was born in Denmark to a Danish father and French mother.

I quickly move toward the door of a cab, but a young man is driving forward holding his briefcase in front of him like the bow of a boat, plowing through everyone else to claim the same cab. He's about to drive right through my family, so using his speed and unbalanced body, I easily redirect his energy with a subtle martial arts move. Tara and the kids leap into the cab.

"French," Tara says and laughs as we pull out of the station.

JULY 10 & 11, SATURDAY & SUNDAY: Now that the weather has finally turned warm in Edinburgh, the duvet has become a problem again. Being our only bed covering, our choice is duvet or no duvet. Beneath it, I sweat. Without it, I shiver. In the middle of the night, while looking for a dry place, I realize Tara has solved the problem by keeping one arm, half her back, one butt cheek and one leg outside, the other half of her body is covered. Good idea, but to duplicate this feat and still connect with my wife, I end up with about eight feet of duvet all crumpled together on half my body. Bad idea.

I finally decide to keep my legs beneath the duvet, but to shove it down at an angle to the point my butt hangs out while my front is covered to my belly button. Just the right exposure to avoid shivering and forestall sweating, while still managing to wrap one leg around my wife. At 3 AM this seems a most creative and monumental discovery. "Ah-h-h."

The weekend is to relax at the apartment, do a little work and maybe catch a movie. Hunter and I sally forth into the sunny Saturday afternoon to purchase newspapers and fruit. We're willing to walk a couple miles for French peaches, Spanish plums, green grapes from Israel, and the juiciest Granny Smith apples I've ever eaten from I don't know where. Why the fruit here is so superior to what we have at home makes us wonder what American and Mexican growers are doing or not doing.

While on our journey to restock the larder, we're stopped by two German tourists who ask for help. They want to know where they are on the city map.  I show them. They want to know how to get to different places. I tell them.

Seems like a resident thing to do. 

Sunday afternoon we go into town to see The Mummy movie. The kids love it. Tara watches with her hands over her eyes. I won't comment. Dinner is at Pizza Hut across the street from the theater. The restaurant is brimming with Star Wars ties-ins and we go home with two free CD-Roms promoting that film. After eating pizza, we decide to walk the four miles back to the apartment. Hunter and Cheyenne have become great hikers and no longer complain about walking even far greater distances.

On the box, BBC will expose how rich New Yorkers pay $15,000 to a woman who will find them the best possible mate among all the singles roaming the streets of Manhattan.

"No."

"Yes," Tara says, intrigued to find out how those weird Americans live.

I hide out with headphones and a book. Having given up on avant-garde Scottish fiction, I managed to get through a dry book on the new Scottish Parliament. No more of either genres. I've switched to the pure pleasure of Bill Bryson's A Walk In The Woods. Bryson, my favorite travel writer, tells of his experiences hiking the Appalachian Trail -- 2,200 miles of wilderness from Maine to Georgia. I laugh so hard I cry. The only thing Bill fears more than the "genetically challenged" hillbillies in the south, is people on the trail who want to talk about the relative merits of different brands of backpacking equipment.

A portion of the back-cover copy says, "Facing savage weather, merciless insects, unreliable maps and a fickle companion whose profoundest wish was to go to a motel and watch The X-Files, Bryan gamely struggled through the wilderness to achieve a lifetime's ambition -- not to die outdoors."

My kind of book. "Ah-h-h."

To be continued . . .

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