For nearly two centuries, a father could not give his own surname to his child. A gravestone could not bear the family name.
Every summer, from North Carolina to Hawaii, men in kilts hurl a 6-metre telegraph pole into the air and hope it lands correctly. They are not in Scotland.
Somewhere in Scotland, as the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve, a dark-haired stranger is standing on a doorstep. In one arm: a lump of coal.
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In August 1822, a king who had never set foot in Scotland arrived in Edinburgh wearing a kilt.
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Most visitors to Scotland brace themselves for haggis as though accepting a dare.
The bagpiper enters first. Then the haggis — carried on a silver platter, steaming, trailing the scent of oatmeal and spice across the dining room.
Within about thirty seconds of “Strip the Willow” beginning, you will be spinning. You won’t know who’s spinning you. You won’t care.
The ferry cuts its engines. The ramp drops. And for a moment, nobody moves.