This blog can best be described as “The confused ramblings of a Scotsman abroad, no longer abroad,” on walkabout…
Author: arkazae
In which I realize something. At an airport. The title said it all, really.
In which I’m awake for over 32 hours, read a book (well, most of a book), discover planes in the Icelandic mists, and hit the ground running in Glasgow with visits to injured friends, distillery shops, parents and a restaurant, before sleeping the sleep of the dead.
In which I meet a very nice man who shares my love of the lack of definitive answers in the world of whisky making; and I lerarn that I can still drive narrow winding coastal roads in Scotland because, well, needs must when the bladder drives.
In which I start and end the day with good (for some definitions of good) wholesome food, visit the north coast of the country, and wave at a distillery.
In which I meet a Scottish Dick Van Dyke, a legendary stillman, and a dram good dram. I also confirm that my career as a rally driver is a non-starter, and the nav system is deluded. (And also write far too much for one post).
I’m writing this from the top of a hill. A very special hill. It’s called Dun Mor, the black hill. I’ve come close to serious injury or actual death here a couple of times, but that’s not important right now. What is important is that it’s one of my favourite places in the world.
In which I confirm that Tobermory isn’t just a womble, learn the correct pronunciation of Ledaig, meet a woman who is the reverse of me, run out of money briefly, and sail on some FERRIES!!
In which I find Sunday drivers are a universal occurrence, even on Thursdays; I encounter lumber lorry two, the second slow-down; and am assured that three stills are better than two by a nice gent named Neil.