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I Love Scotland Because…

As Benedict Ambrose’s new socks proclaim, that was The Best Christmas Ever. Invigorating walks in the cold. Telling my goddaughter and her brothers an exciting story about crossing the jungle (written by one of my homeschooled students). Dinner with my dear friend Trish. Brunch with my dear friend Lily. Fetching B.A. from the airport. Christmas shopping in actual malls. The Christmas Eve carol service with which even B.A. could find no fault. The Uber home from Midnight Mass. The incomparable Christmas Day in which all the living family was together for the first time. St. Stephen’s Day lunch with Lily and her family. A sojourn in the Eastern Townships including my brother’s in-laws, fireworks, Clydesdales pulling a cartload of happy children, Sunday Mass in a monastery….

No wonder I’ve returned to Scotland with mixed feelings. For many years the beauty of the Historical House took the sting out of annual (February or March) returns from visits to Canada. Last year the almost entirely magnolia-walled new flat plunged me into a depression. I think about a young American friend who married a Scot and lasted–what? Six years?–in Edinburgh before her husband found a job in the US. 

So now, having had a four-hour snooze following our red-eye flight back to Scotland, I am sitting in my favourite room–painted dark crimson last summer–and thinking about what I love about Scotland besides B.A. and the architecture. 

Praise the Lord

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