It was in a zombie-like state that we landed in Edinburgh on account of little-to-no sleep (the usual conditions of flight), teenager-induced fury (can you be fined for leaving your light on, shuffling a deck of cards on a darkened airplane), and Air Canada Rouge (no more need be said).
Still, we were excited (and, in my case, relieved to have avoided murder-by-card-shuffle).
As we made our way down to customs, a nice, Canadian-sounding couple held the door of the "lift" open for us--the door which, when closed, caused every light in the elevator to turn off. And so, following a lively "we should be having popcorn", we all descended to passport control in the dark.
In the daze of the next few hours we roamed around a beautifully green metropolis and rows and rows of elegant Georgian townhouses, where my tendency to gaze into people's homes was intensified by the--it's not my fault--open doorways (in the middle of the city!), short curtains, drawn-back curtains, and what appeared to be wealth coupled with the occasional kitsch.
By the time we settled in Dishoom to have (an incredible) lunch we were completely exhausted by the un-Torontonian incline of a city where a pleasant downward tilt was inevitably coupled with a laborious ascent--god-willing on an empty stomach. Still, I had a good mental laugh when, forgetting that I was in English-speaking country, I couldn't decide between Persian and French, and then, remembering, between "bathroom" and "washroom" (realizing my mistake, of course, when faced with the simple UK "toilet").
After another lovely day in Edinburgh we joined a tour of the Highlands, during which we learned that Germans/Austrians are consistently the loveliest, friendliest fellow travellers; that being from Canada was akin to being from Mars, so rare were we among the throngs of American and European tourists; that New Zealanders drink Pepsi, it seems, by the gallon; and that extended bus rides put me to sleep like nothing else on earth--that is, I spent so much of our drive in an induced coma that Farzaneh eventually took to asking, "were you awake when our guide said..." (Another common refrain was, "don't mind her, she's Russian", when I was lost to the raspberry bushes; fellow Russians, take note!).
Yvonne, lest I forget to sing her graces, was marvelous. A "wee lass" about my size, about my age, narrated without pause while driving like the devil through twisting, winding, bumpy Highland roads--meaning so safely and confidently that even I, whose terrified North American brain translated every car in the neighbouring lane as "JESUS, oncoming traffic", was lulled to sleep (see above). Yvonne, who spent her spare moments in the greenery disposing of roadside litter, was the perfect representation of every Scot we met along the way: charming, mellow, lovely, all warmth and hospitality. We had not been so smiled-at or so sincerely greeted since Halifax (which, of course, makes perfect sense now).
Truly, this was a place to leave your heart. We often found ourselves exclaiming, "people live here!" because who could live in this fairy tale of fog and thundering silence. Who could live on the Skye of To the Lighthouse, in the shadow of those blue-green rolling hills, seemingly without end...
I should mention, also, that up until the very last day, we saw everything from storks to sheep to crows to sheep to seals and even a gorgeous deer emerging from a distant Highland forest. But we did not see what I later dubbed "the elusive Scottish bunny" until the airport hotel (roaming), until the airplane (in a real bunny hop-run). So perhaps they only appear when one is airborne--or close to it.
But let's attribute that to the magic of this land.
Beware, you will be charmed to death.
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