It is Friday, September 26th.

What a crazy couple of weeks. It has cooled off a bit. Four dogs are sleeping nearby. Giles is on the bed next to me. He doesn’t want to be far away. Pip is coughing in the pen. I need to get up and give him his medicines. Sunrise is two hours away at 7:01. It may be too cloudy to see it.

Today will be another action-packed whirlwind. The blog. Week #428. Gaithersburg—we need to:

• Return a lot of Carl’s bookcases that the shelf-meister inspected in the warehouse and deemed fit to re-erect.
• Negotiations on what may be our biggest deal ever.
• The accountant wants more info for taxes.
• And the books on carts with my name on them seem to be multiplying like rabbits. Even though I went in at 6 a.m. yesterday and processed a LOT, more kept appearing as the day progressed.

So, this week’s story will be a bit disjointed. The story for much of the trip will have to wait. There’s just not time. Just look at what was involved.

What was the best part? The Wordsworths’ two homes? Sir Walter Scott’s Abbotsford estate? The trip had surprisingly bookish features. What about standing on the spot where Macbeth was crowned beside the chapel at Scone (pronounced “skoon”) Palace?

It was hard work. Plenty of steps every day. Often over 20,000.

Plus, there was pressing Wonder Book work that required juggling many time zones.

Monday, September 22nd

Leaving Edinburgh on the equinox. The first day of fall. The cobblestone streets in the city are bumpy. Writing on the bus is problematic. The two cups of coffee I drank this morning are sloshing around inside me. Two days in Scotland’s capital were fun even though I was here just a few years ago. There’s enough to do that I didn’t feel there was much duplicated.

It is a beautiful morning.

Our wonderful guide points out sites as we leave the city.

Like the Fettes school. James Bond and Ian Fleming were both expelled from Eton to the far north to Fettes College—one of the premier secondary schools in the world.

Ian was educated at the upper-class Fettes school in Edinburgh. (Fleming was expelled from Eton after having an affair with a maid.)

While expanding on James Bond’s back story, Ian Fleming wrote in You Only Live Twice that the agent had attended Fettes College, his father Andrew Bond’s old school, after having been removed from Eton. Fleming Biographer John Pearson claims an Andrew Bond attended Fettes as a boarder in Carrington House. However, the school register lists no student named Bond prior to 1954.

“Here the atmosphere was somewhat Calvinistic, and both academic and athletic standards were rigorous. Nevertheless, though inclined to be solitary by nature, he established some firm friendships among the traditionally famous athletic circles, at the school. By the time he left, at the early age of seventeen, he had twice fought for the school as a light-weight and had, in addition, founded the first serious judo class at a British public school.”

Fleming based his character on Sir Alexander Glen, an old boy of the school who was Winston Churchill’s envoy to Belgrade during the Second World War.

While Fleming never claimed there was any source for the name of Bond other than James Bond, an American ornithologist, Philp claims a real-life Commander James Bond RNVR attended Fettes. This is purely coincidental and certainly not an influence as Fleming’s Bond was created in 1952, whereas the Fettes student namesake attended the school after 1954; there are no Bonds recorded at the school prior to that date. The school had his Who’s Who entry copied and framed over the Second Master’s office door in one of its main corridors. This has since been removed.

Several young James Bond stories refer to, or feature, Bond’s schooling at Fettes. The cover of This Time We Are All In The Front Line depicts a young Bond and Housemates leaving Fettes in uniform to rescue survivors of Luftwaffe bombing of Leith Docks in the Second World War.

Most schools in the UK require uniforms, our guide continued. No hair dye, tattoos, piercings etc. This helps mitigate class status and bullying.

Then we get to the vast bridges crossing the Firth of Forth. I drove over one of these in 2019 when my buddies and I took our last trip. We didn’t think it would be the last. COVID helped make it so.

We’re going to St. Andrews. This will be my fifth visit to the city. The first was about 35 years ago when the children were quite young. I drove. We had a big paper atlas and a paper guidebook (likely Fodor’s.) My older son was an excellent navigator even when a small boy.

When we stood on Swilcan Bridge, never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever play golf there. But in 2013, two doctors, a lawyer and I planned a golf trip to Scotland. We found a travel company that specialized in these things and could get us access to some of the most iconic courses in Scotland—Prestwick, Troon, Turnberry, Carnoustie, a couple of others and… the Old Course at St. Andrews.

My contribution was to be designated driver because I’d driven in the UK and Ireland many times. This compensated somewhat for my poor organizational skills.

“You don’t want me involved in planning anything,” I told them.

These were places I’d seen championships contested on TV, but I never thought I’d ever be there, much less play at them. I walked in the footsteps of every great golfer in history. From Old and Young Tom Morris to Bobby Jones to the modern greats—Palmer, Nicklaus, Woods…

Of course, the Holy Grail was a round at St. Andrews’ Old Course.

Things started early in the morning. We carried our bags a few blocks—we were staying in town. Then down to the seaside—the links—which is the wasteland between the sea and usable land. We went to the starter’s cottage and were each assigned a caddy.

Mine was named Morris… what was his first name? It wasn’t Tom. That would be too weird and magical. Maybe it was Stuart (or Stewart.) He was a rough character but very genial. I think he was younger than he looked. He hinted at problems he’d had that ruined his promising golf career at a young age. On the first hole, I put my ball in the tiny creek that crosses the fairway about 200 yards out.

“Stupid.”

I was sure the hundreds of people clustered around the 1st and 18th holes were watching me…

Things got better though. He had a calming effect on me.

On every other hole, he would hand roll a skinny cigarette in one hand—like a magic trick.

Before long I had my first birdie. I ended up with five—pretty astounding for me.

But most amazing was the 18th. My three buddies, their caddies, Morris and I stood on the bridge near the tee and got obligatory photos of each other and the group. I pulled my tee shot left, but there were acres of smooth fairway over that way. One friend sliced three tee shots to the right. There was a low stone wall along the right side. It was not far away. On the other side of the wall was a road. The road was lined with parked cars. On the other side of the road were stone buildings—old and now converted into shops, a hotel and a restaurant or two.

His tee shots went bouncing off the road and a building or two. The rest of us pretended not to notice. His caddie might have whispered something to him because he slowed his swing, and the fourth shot rolled pretty straight.

I was, of course, primarily concerned with myself. Stewart gave me the yardage. I set up to swing and thought I felt hundreds of eyes on me.

‘Slow and smooth. Deep breath,’ I thought.

“THWACK”

It looked ok. When it stopped, it had rolled onto the green about 15 feet in front of the hole.

Eventually, there were four white balls on the green. Stewart had given me great advice all day. My problem was executing his instructions.

“Slightly uphill. It will break two hands to the right.”

He walked away from me toward the hole.

“This is the pace you want on the ball,” he said, indicating his walking speed.

He stopped about 10 feet on the far side of the hole. He squatted. Rose. Moved a foot or so to his left. He squatted again and made eye contact. He pointed his finger down toward his foot.

“Hit it here.”

He rose, keeping his foot in place.

How could one shot be so important? Well, it was the 18th at St. Andrews. There were hundreds of eyes on me. (In reality, maybe a couple dozen tourists were casually observing us from out of bounds, which was only 30 feet back of the hole.)

If it went in, it would be my most memorable moment in golf.

IF…

I waggled my putter an inch or two above the ground until it felt like the right amount of force to exert on the ball.

I stepped up. Spread my legs a bit and addressed the ball. The putter was pulled backward about 6 inches.

It rolled up and turned bit on the undulating tree.

And it dropped in!

It would not be seemly to celebrate beyond a smile. I had a photo taken of me holding up 3 fingers while holding the flag in the other.

(Those photos are missing on my phone! There are no photos prior to 2014. What happened? Maybe they are still on one of the old phones that I tossed in the desk when it was replaced.)

But here’s what the golfer looked like in 2014.

We went behind a building near the 18th hole and settled up with our caddies. I gave Stewart a nice tip.

I’m sure we went to a pub afterwards and basked in the glow of our shared experience.

It was a wonderful trip for the friendship and camaraderie as well.

This trip, I enjoyed walking around the beautiful town again.

The cathedral ruins.

Hundreds of young people walking the street. (St. Andrews University has 7000-8000 students. A lot of Americans attend. Maybe because they have to pay something? I don’t know. But all universities are tuition-free in Scotland for Scots. That’s not the case in England.)

Kingussie in the Highlands.

A small town. The usual ancient stone buildings built right to the edge of the sidewalks.

The last day. I’m ready to get home.

It has been an amazing adventure. I’ve seen so much I never thought I’d see. Can I cross the UK off my list? No. It is such a rich place. History. Beauty. Culture.

In many ways, I feel rejuvenated. Reset.

There’s also some apprehension. Travel is always risky.

When I do get back, there’s a massive amount of work awaiting me. Two enormous projects need to be addressed. One is potentially the largest since The Big Move in 2013-14.

I’ll need to get Giles from the kennel. Merry & Pip are in Pennsylvania with a babysitter. The family is going to the beach this weekend. My older son said his dog sitter canceled and asked “would” I…

Four dogs are not much different than three, I suppose.

We are heading to Menzies Castle. Then on to a farm for a “Haggis Experience.” I’ve experienced a good deal of haggis this trip as well as black pudding (blood sausage.) All the fear about it is overblown. It is much like the stuffing my mother would have made for Thanksgiving. (We also called it dressing. I called it heaven with gravy, turkey, mashed potatoes and rolls to mop it all up with.) I guess the put-off for some is having the stuff stuffed into a lamb’s stomach.

Offal is so common now—especially in gourmet restaurants.

Pork belly.

I’ve never experienced hog maw. My second ever employee, Smitty, was old-school in many ways. She would describe making hog maw.

Ugh!

She offered to bring some in. I demurred.

We are so far north that there’s a gap in sunrise times. Inverness will see the sunrise at 7:12 tomorrow. London 6:49.

I’ll be glad to be off the bus. The driver is great. But the roads are often winding and bumpy. That makes it tough to peck away on the laptop.

We will end up in Glasgow. I fly home early tomorrow morning. Aer Lingus via Dublin.

I’d like to visit Ireland again.

It is Tuesday.

Monday, after St. Andrews, we stopped at Scone (“skoon”) Palace.

That was fun. We had a private tea in the old kitchen. There was still an enormous old cookstove. One wall was hung with hundreds of highly polished copper cookware.

The “Palace Made” shortbread was about the best I’ve tasted.

Our guide was a spry old fellow. He was passionate about the palace and identified nearly every portrait (and nearly every other object from Meissen china.) The books had been removed from the library so that one of the Stormonts could display his huge exotic china collection.

Outside, he led us to a small mound above the palace entrance.

On that mound, all the Scottish kings have been crowned while seated on the Stone of Scone.

Even Macbeth.

In the shop, you can buy t-shirts and other stuff with a list of some.

It is amazing to stand in these places!

The original Stone of Scone is now under an ancient wooden throne in Westminster Abbey in London. Many Scots are not happy about this. Whoever possesses the Stone rules Scotland.

The gift shop also had these for sale.

I had to have those. The ingredients show there’s no meat in them. I haven’t tried them yet. I’m waiting for a special occasion.

And then we were in the Highlands. It is beautiful country. Much of the land is covered in heather.

Our guide pointed out a white castle off to the right.

“Blair Castle. Home to the Athol Clan. The 10th Duke of Athol had no close heirs. The 11th Duke, it was discovered, would be a humble South African sheep farmer. It is one of those apocryphal stories that turn out to be true. When someone found him and said, ‘You are the Duke of Athol,’ imagine the surprise. He inherited a beautiful white castle and his own private army. But he preferred to remain in South Africa and only came to Scotland for events the clan chief needed to attend.”

Nowadays, the “army” is just a group that participates in the Highland Games.

The next day, on our way south toward Glasgow, we stopped at Menzies Castle (pronounced “men guess.”)

Hundreds of pheasants were in the fields along the winding roads we took out of the Highlands—often interspersed with sheep.

Hunting is a big pastime here—grouse, deer, pheasant…

We were given a private tour by a quirky fellow who had spent time in St. Louis with a girlfriend. “It didn’t work out, but we are still friends.”

He gave us a tour of the lower levels before turning us loose to explore the upper stories and turrets.

In the wine cellar, he told a story of when the redcoats occupied the castle during one of the many attempts of the English to subdue the Scottish.

“Four redcoats raped the clan chief’s daughter. He demanded them from their captain. He told the captain he would gather his clan and kill the whole garrison if the four weren’t turned over. They were hung up, and the local women tortured them. Then they were hanged. Then butchered and put in barrels in the cellar to feed the dogs. Ghosts still haunt the cellar…”

Scott, the live-in guide, raised two EMF detectors, and they flashed to life.

“Aye, they don’t like to hear us talking about it.”

There was a huge walk-in fireplace and a large bread oven off to the side.

“These crosses carved into the hearthstones were designed to keep witches from flying down the chimney.”

“The floor would be strewn with straw and herbs. ‘Thresh.’ This raised stone across the doorway would keep it in. ‘Threshold.'”

In another cellar room, a long ancient wooden board was suspended from a vaulted ceiling by two large hooks. “They would put containers of food on it so the rats couldn’t get it. ‘Cupboard.'”

Then back on the bus for a long winding ride toward Glasgow. I used to like carnival rides. This one lasted about two hours. Occasional rapid stops were needed to pass by oncoming vehicles or negate sharp turns…

Our last destination is the Haggis Experience. (I am SUCH a tourist.) We needed to get there early if we wanted to join in on catching some haggis up in the heather, we were told. The shop was located on a little farm in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town was Killearn. There was a soaring sandstone monument to George Buchanan in the little village. I had to research who he was. Mostly a Calvinist who was exiled a few times. Spent some time in prison. Oddly, he was a teacher of Montaigne and wrote or translated some tragedies…

There’s something to learn in nearly every nook and cranny in Europe. There are thousands of years of history everywhere.

The Experience was presented in a small shed. Our group of 14 was seated on benches at plank tables. The “show” was put on by two middle-aged Scotsmen. One was in a kilt. The ingredients were in bowls on a low table so we all could view the procedure.

After some old school banter (which a couple of women didn’t seem to appreciate—harmless really, but maybe a bit sexist in today’s climate), they ran the cooked chunks of heart and lung and other bits of meat through a grinder while telling us more than you want to know about the history of haggis.

Of course, there’s the Robert Burns poem “Address to a Haggis.”

Two women volunteered to do the mixing. They snapped on surgical gloves and stuck their hands into the big bowl, which now held all the ingredients.

Except for the bit of stomach. “The cow’s fourth stomach is considered the best.”

There are two scary things for many about haggis. The “odd meats” is one. If you eat sausage or hot dogs, I’m pretty sure you unknowingly have consumed all kinds of bits and pieces.

The stomach was held up and stuffed.

“You don’t eat the stomach. It is just the container.”

We were served some of the stuff they had already prepared. It was served with neeps (turnips) and tatties (potatoes.)

It was quite good. Not exotic at all. Kind of like an oaty turkey stuffing you would make at Thanksgiving.

Wednesday morning

The first leg home. Glasgow to Dublin. The flight is late, and I hope there’s no problem with my connection to Dulles from Ireland. The plane is a twin prop named St. Darerca. She was married to a man named Meriadoc?! As in Pip and Merry?

I was up around 5. Made very bad instant coffee in my room. Caught an Uber from the Clayton Hotel on the Clyde in downtown Glasgow. It only took about 20 minutes, so I was early for everything. The Uber driver was fun. He was a Celtic fan (pronounced “sell tic.”) Soccer is almost a religion in many towns and cities in the UK.

The words above the door read, “YOU DON’T PLAY FOR CELTIC / YOU LIVE FOR CELTIC”

Their main competition in Scottish soccer has traditionally been the Edinburgh Rangers. That iconic club went bankrupt and was liquidated in 2012. I was told Celtic fans no longer respect the Rangers and call them “zombies.” Soccer had most of its early growth in Scotland, and for many years, the small country dominated the sport.

I got a window seat on the plane, so I hope to have a view of the Irish Sea.

I need to get back to Ireland. The West. It has been 10 years since that iconic visit. It was life changing.

I’ve had to “work” a great deal on this trip. I spent over an hour in the airport while waiting, writing emails and figuring out solutions to problems I’d been sent from the warehouse. It is 2 a.m. back home.

I missed two grandchild birthdays. I hope to make it up soon. They’ll all be going to the beach this weekend. I’ll have four dogs to watch in addition to my heavy catch-up duties at the warehouse and at home.

There were some bizarre dreams in Glasgow last night. One involved my brother Tony, who passed away in 2021. Seems so long ago. In the dream, he was visiting the warehouse, shopping the vast online inventory shelved on miles of metal and wooden bookcases. It was so real. So good to see and speak with him again. Strange to have no older family left. For all the rifts, I looked up to my three brothers. I think of them every day and miss them.

It is only a 50-minute flight to Dublin. The propellers make the flight loud. There’s the Irish Sea below. It looked as smooth as glass.

The passage through customs in Dublin went pretty fast and smooth. I think I’m cleared for the US. There was a lot of time to kill. I didn’t want to eat. I certainly didn’t want anything to drink.

“Wait! Dublin. Guinness. What am I thinking?!”

The airport wing I was in had a crappy little shop with awful-looking packaged sandwiches and other dreary stuff. But Guinness on tap.

There’s no doubt. It tastes different in Ireland. Maybe they make an export variety they think overseas tastes prefer. Maybe it just doesn’t travel well. This was far different and better than the several pints I had in Scotland. Those weren’t terrible, like almost every US pint is. But even in a plastic cup in the morning, in a chilly sterile airport corridor, this was creamy and magical.

Well, I’m home.

The drive back from the airport was horrendous. Over two hours of stop-and-go traffic crawling up US 15 through Leesburg to the Potomac. Across the river and up 15 to Frederick then finally to my turnoff.

I thought of going in for a couple of hours to get ahead of some carts, but the crappy car ride wore me out.

Then there was the five-hour time difference. My day started in Glasgow at 5 a.m. (Midnight US time.) I didn’t get to Frederick til after 6. (11 p.m. Glasgow time.)

It was an amazing trip. One of the best. I’m still trying to process a lot of it. The Wordsworth and Shakespeare and Walter Scott… how cool!

Desperate to get a start on the backlog, I got up at 5 on Thursday and came in to work at 6.

It was depressing when I got home last night. The long driveway was covered with wet leaves. They’re not fall leaves but rather brown dead leaves the trees cast off due to the drought.

What a mess.

It was raining pretty hard. The house was dark and empty. All the dogs are away. It was a little stuffy. The weather was warm and muggy and interspersed with rain. I went downstairs and switched on the water pump and water heater. I’d set some cheese and pate out when I came in to get to room temperature. I only unpacked what was necessary.

I had some wine and crackers with cheese and liver. I put on The Rings of Power Season 2. Soon, I dozed and then awoke and dragged myself to bed.

I’d walked around the yard. This is the ugliest time of the year for the gardens. And, yep, the damn deer had eaten more gardens.

Depressing.

I was the only one in the warehouse that early. The building is stuffed. (Remember a few months ago I was whining we were running out of books?) There were dozens of loaded carts. I blew through about 20 before the first people came in at 7.

Nothing exciting.

Just work.

Depressing.

In mid-morning, I went to the nearby kennel and picked up Giles.

“Did he do ok?”

“He was wonderful. So affectionate.”

Same dog? (He is affectionate with me.) I wonder how many homes he has had? Maybe he thought the kennel was his new home and wanted to make a good first impression.

He was very happy to see me. He’d been groomed and looked like a different dog.

The place where I get mulch is right across the road from the kennel. I couldn’t resist buying a load.

Then we went back to the warehouse.

In late morning, Andrew had driven us down to Gaithersburg. It was rainy and muggy. I felt I should inspect the progress that had been made while I was gone.

SURPRISE!

The shelving contractor was in the Gaithersburg store when we arrived. No one told me?!

The final shelving phase is finally in progress. My old mentor Carl’s quirky, eclectic bookcase collection is being dismantled. The ones we can’t reuse here will be transported to the warehouse where perhaps we can cobble them together somewhere.

It will be amazing when the transformation is complete.

No more quirky nooks and crannies. Some people found them scary.

Sigh… It has been only about 6 months. But the Gaithersburg expansion has been all-consuming at times. It will be wonderful when I don’t have the stress of contractor things always looming over me.

Some other project will take its place.

We are driving back now. The stress and exertion from the trip are kicking in. I’m tired and dazed. It feels five hours later, so things will just get worse.

There’s still so much to do today. And tomorrow. And on the weekend…

As for tonight, I need to drive to Leesburg (again) to meet my older son and his kids for dinner and to transfer Mitch, their aging dog. I’ll babysit him while they go to the beach.

I am tired.