Here’s my last, and long, post about our trip in September 2025.

In Scotland, they call a meandering lazy drive a “dauner.” We set off on one of those on our Sunday in Edinburgh, and it was a gorgeous sunny clear (and cool) day. We’d been braving a bit of rain now and then on our entire trip, and Edinburgh was colder than Paris had been. The day we spent at the Royal Botanic Gardens (see photo) was pretty good weather as well, with scattered sun, but it was challenging for us Californians so we had been pretty bundled up.

 

We drove out to the east of Edinburgh a ways, looking for a nice place to stop and maybe read a little, but we had passed one park that turned out to be pretty much the only place along where the Firth of Forth meets the North Sea (see photo) where we could have done that, as far as we were able to determine. It did have a spectacular view, and we had stopped there briefly to take a photo of the sea and the distant hills of the Highlands. We drove past Gullane, location of the Scottish Open (see photo) and finally, nature was calling after all that driving; we stopped to use the facilities at an inn across the street from Dirleton Castle Gardens, an expansive place with hilly rough trails which we’d traversed on a previous trip.

 

Hunger was getting the best of us in the late afternoon, so we used our trusty iPhones to look for a place to eat. I can now say that there are perhaps two or three cafes or restaurants open at that time in East Berwick on a Sunday, and every one of them was full. I always have snacks with me when we go on a day trip so we had cookies and whatever else I’d tossed into our tote, which held us over.

We decided to extend the car rental for a day so that we might find someplace to go the next day without being dependent upon taxis. Then we ordered room service for dinner; they had some Indian dishes on the menu, delivered by a friendly fellow we suspected of being the chef, and the food was quite good. Hats off to the Itchycoo restaurant at the Radisson.

Richard had discovered there was a picturesque well called St. Bernard’s in the Leith Water Walk, a long walkway, near the residential area of Dean’s Village, with a large creek running through it which fed the well. We drove to the area, having reserved a parking spot, parked in a dicey difficult to reach residential lot, and set off. We got to the access point which was under a bridge, and there was a steep rocky, mossy, muddy path to get down to the walk. The photo here is taken from the bridge; quite a nice view. We realized I wouldn’t be able to go to the area where the well was, across the bridge and up a steep cobblestoned street, so managed to get me and my scooter down under the bridge and went the other direction. We went less than a quarter mile and encountered another bridge with stairs that I could not manage, so we headed back to the access point. By this time it was raining lightly, and the precipitous (now wet) path back up to the cobblestoned street was much more slippery now, and an upsetting challenge for me.

Happy to be back in the car, and both of us feeling like wet cats with our fur rubbed the wrong way, we then made our way to the National Museum of Scotland. Finding parking was time-consuming, but there was a garage at the University of Edinburgh, a few blocks away. By the time we arrived at the museum we had only a scant hour or less to see what we could. They let us in for free, partly because of my mobility issue, and considered Richard my “carer.” Well, friends. This museum is not one of those you can see in a short visit. The design area alone, full of art nouveau works and pieces typical of Charles Rennie Macintosh and his wife and his sister-in-law, Margaret and Frances MacDonald, had me awestruck. (Our living room rug is a reproduction of one of Frances MacDonald’s designs, and we particularly like that art era.) The next time we’re in Edinburgh, we’ll plan to spend several hours there.

At closing time, we got back to the university and were happy to stop for tea, a very good salad and a cinnamon bun (baked on site) at Soderberg tea house. The hushed atmosphere was welcome, with a few students studying and a few others quietly talking and chuckling, and we had a nice view of the school’s plaza.

 

 

That evening, we had reservations at a pub across the street from the hotel, the Whiski Bar & Restaurant, where we’d been to hear music (and drink) in years past. There was traditional music on the schedule, but we first had dinner, and it was most excellent. Haggis spring rolls, rib eye steak, chicken and avocado salad, and a tasting flight of single malt scotch. But then, the music was just one fella playing his own songs. I asked the owner, Abby Cavanaugh, if the other group would be on later, and she said they were ill and not playing that evening. So we decided to “gie it a wide berth,” waited for the end of a song, and grabbed a cab to Sandy Bell’s again. That evening was especially fun; the music was even better than before, and we sat next to a Scottish couple who’d just gotten engaged, so their rapture was contagious. He was a handsome prematurely grey gentleman who saw my crutch and offered to scoot over on his small bench so I could sit, and she was a beautiful woman with piercings and a wild dark haircut. Richard snagged a little wooden stool next to me.

On our last day in Edinburgh, another cold day of iffy weather, my goal was to find some English tea from Fortnum and Mason. I knew there was a store down on Princes Street, a few blocks down the hill from our hotel by the train station. Our research told us that they had two stores, and the one with food was now down in the train station. It was a maze getting down there through ramps and two elevators, but I did get some English Breakfast tea. It wasn’t the one I had hoped for, F&M’s royal blend, but I knew it was going to be better than Lipton and probably better than many of the English varieties I could get in the States.

Then we cruised by the Sir Walter Scott Memorial, a grand edifice on Princes Street in a park. Richard said, “What did he do??!” I said, “He was an author.” Richard: “Boy, they sure treat authors better here than in the States.” I had noticed that.

 

We made our way back up the hill through throngs of tourists, surprising for a Tuesday, and packed for our departure the next morning. That evening, on our way to dinner, we stopped at St. Giles church on the Royal Mile hoping to see the sculptures of angels with bagpipes we’d heard were there, but we couldn’t locate them without a docent. We again dined at Le Bistrot in the French embassy. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped and listened to buskers singing and playing, but were deterred by the very cool evening.

Wednesday I was up at 5:00am and we were at the airport, a half hour from the hotel, by 8:00. And here comes one of those travel sagas one hopes won’t happen.

Our British Air flight was supposed to leave for London at 10:30. There were minor delays but we finally found ourselves on the plane, only to learn at Heathrow that our flight was not on the schedule boards, so was delayed indefinitely. When we arrived in London, we didn’t know where or when my scooter would be delivered, and at first they were telling me to take a long walk to wait for it (pretty counter-intuitive) so a delightful tall strawberry haired BA flight steward saw to it that they got my scooter off the plane and brought it to me before I went into the terminal. Richard looked the flight up on Google and learned which gate was likely to be ours. We got there and there was hardly a soul waiting to board. Richard and another passenger told the British Air personnel there that the flight wasn’t on the board at all, so they managed to get someone to put it up and the gate area gradually began to fill with travelers.

Then they herded us all to the boarding area on another floor, and those of us who were mobility challenged, mostly old folks, waited, and waited, and waited, some standing. Someone eventually came and said we should go back to the gate on the other floor and wait, due to a door having been left open on the plane when it shouldn’t have been, so a security search had to be done. A further delay. They herded us back again and then down some stairs to the lower level (Richard carried my scooter), and finally we had to climb stairs from the tarmac up to the plane. I think the people who were completely unable to climb stairs were going to be taken up on an exterior lift, which caused a further delay. Heathrow doesn’t have enough jetways to attach at the right levels for boarding, which amazes me given it’s a major international hub.

We were flying business class, which is almost the same reasonable price as United’s Economy Plus, and were happy to sink into our comfortable seats and queue up movies to watch for the long flight home to San Francisco. The flight was without mishap, and although we got home at 9:00pm or later instead of 6:30, we were glad to see our kitty, whose sitter had to leave before we arrived home, having checked with us to make sure we’d make it back that night.

Hopefully we’ll go back again to Scotland one day. There, when you’re leaving, they say, “Haste ye back (for we love ye so),” and that’s how we feel about that magical country.