This weekend, Faith and I made a flying visit to Scotland (literally, we flew). Some friends of ours were getting married in Glasgow, and we decided to make the journey to see them wed.
My great grandfather was Scottish, and I’m ashamed to say I’d never been to my motherland before. Faith also claims she is Scottish, in the way most Americans brag about being Scottish/Irish/Welsh. I told her not to say that too loudly around the real Scots, but I heard her running through a brief history of her ancestry with a few skeptical-looking wedding-goers.
Originally we thought we’d take Adlai along with us, but as the date drew closer, we grew more and more fond of the idea of leaving him with my brother and sister-in-law. The little chap didn’t mind too much, as they’ve got a Golden Retriever he’s quite fond of. In fact, he was so excited to see them, he barely waved goodbye to us; we tried not to take it personally.
Without Adlai in tow, we were able to stay up rather late taking part in the ceilidh, which I learned is a traditional Scottish dance. When I say “take part
