“I think art saves lives because…it’s just a way of distracting yourself and giving your life a purpose.” –Lucas David
“A Scottish Poem”
Fiction. Based on a True Exploration of a Bonnie Land
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional
The sun appears from time to time.
Mostly there’s rain.
The woman I stay with often tries to put the fear of God into the rain.
Drive on the left side of the road.
It plays around with the mind a bit
Eroding what you’ve known your whole life.
It changes how you position yourself
And navigate a landscape.
Daylight starts at 4 in the morning and lasts until 10 in the evening.
Yet the weather is mild compared to a Georgia summer.
Butter on everything.
Potato scones and brown sauce are the backbones of the Scottish diet.
Black pudding isn’t as bad as it seems
Especially spread on a roll with streaky bacon.
Fish and chips the size of my face.
Stovies are what you make.
Tea every hour.
Afternoon tea is very different than tea you have in the afternoon.
Irn Bru flows through the veins of the youth.
Biscuits and Victoria sponge.
Tablet is a dangerous treat
Along with shortbread.
Tailors for kilts are like JoS. A. Banks.
Tartans for family lineage.
Heritage and lineage are woven into the country’s history.
So much walking.
Short legs struggle uphill.
Miles and miles.
It doesn’t look that far.
You don’t know how far you’ve gone until you look back.
Hills and lochs.
So many lochs.
Fields and laws.
Weirs and closes.
That hill looks like a mountain
But I haven’t seen the mountains of the Highlands yet.
History bleeds from the ground.
Tiny cottages and farmhouses.
The Royal Mile to the castle.
Ruins of a lord’s house.
A town of a queen’s birth with her castle housing her last moments.
Monument to the executed.
A museum to famous Scottish writers.
A close housing a small pub where two infamous body snatchers drank.
One bronze statue of a faithful dog.
A close with the ghosts of plague victims.
Glass domes of royal botanical gardens.
The barrier of the English language.
Is it garage or garage?
How is why.
I know the words by themselves
But the context they’re used in I don’t understand.
Actually, could you just add subtitles because I don’t know what you’re saying at all.
All these brogues are difficult to understand
From Edinburgh to Aberdeen.
Is that written in English or Gaelic?
The European public transportation system ceases to impress me.
Trains and light rails are everywhere and easy to understand.
Mostly accurate timetables and apps for easy navigation.
The buses are everywhere
But I have yet to nail down that system yet.
Which bus stop is actually a bus stop?
X28 and X27 to where?
All routes go to the mall.
Press the button to get off, otherwise the bus drivers won’t ever stop.
The garden centers are named after a house elf and have wonderful cafes in them.
Iceland isn’t a country; it’s a store.
Sundays have empty churches and people still keep rushing.
You have to pay for shopping carts and bring your own bags.
Mind the gap.