Not much to say about day eight. There’s only so much to be said about a hour-plus connecting flight and then a ten-hour one that turned into eleven hours. But I did have an interesting breakfast.
Black pudding had danced before my eyes on all sorts of menus all week—lunch, dinner, often combined with steak or lamb in a chef-oriented entrée. I knew I had to taste it before I left, and I resolved to do so that last morning. I thought it was pudding like maybe tapioca, so I asked our host, David, if I could have just a teaspoonful. Well, it didn’t come that way—it was a coarse-textured and very black pattie, like I remember my mom cutting off cans of corned beef hash. I ate my sausage and eyed that pattie. Finally I took a bite: it tasted like oatmeal, maybe a bit saltier, maybe a bit sweeter. I asked David the point of adding the dried pigs blood, and he said he supposed it was simply to make use of every part of the animal. (I must learn to take pictures of food!) I did eat almost all of it, I’m glad I tried it, but I won’t miss it much since it’s not available here.
There is one airplane story on what seemed an interminable flight: a friend who is a wellness counselor had given me a sheet of exercises that you can do in your seat to avoid deep vein thrombosis. They involved turning your feet in small circles, walking in place while sitting, stretching your arms various ways, etc. I did them rather faithfully, and the kids thought it was funny to imitate me, especially when we were sitting in exit aisles and had plenty of leg room. They would swing their feet and legs in wide circles, grinning at me all the time. Passersby—and the attendants—must have thought we were all nuts.
We landed in Houston at 8:40--I don't even want to think about what time that was in Scotland--and Megan caught a flight (barely) to Austin; Colin and I went to his house, and everyone crashed. Next morning I was on a 9:00 a.m. flight to DFW and home before noon. The trip was over before I knew it.
In this series of posts I have referred to my son and daughter, ages 42 and 40 respectively, as “the kids.” They are; they will always be my children. But they are the best traveling companions (and guardians) ever.
If you’ve enjoyed my posts on Scotland, I’m grateful. Writing them was a great way to cement the trip in my mind, just as it feels as if it might flit away in the dailyness of life. It also helped me gain some perspective on all that we saw and did. I surely haven’t seen all of Scotland, let alone a sixteenth of its many castles. I’m glad we went at the pace we did and saw as much as we could. But on another trip—yes, now I’m counting on it—I’d like to stay in one place for several days, probably on Skye.