Guest Post: Honeymoon In Edinburgh

Guest post by Elsa at Feminist Sonar.

It has been a year since I was in Edinburgh and I miss it. It’s a beautiful city, and possibly the favorite one my husband and I visited on our honeymoon? And why? Because of the people.

In one evening at a pub, we made friends with locals.

The next day we got to meet Lorna and Neil, and for the first time ever we got to spend time with another couple where one half of the partnership was disabled.

It was magical. We didn’t have to explain the things that we do to keep me safe, we got to hang out and drink scotch and there wasn’t a shred of awkwardness.

Would I change anything about my trip? More time, less stairs up to my bedroom, and not having walking pneumonia are among my favorites.

Do You Need A Vacation?

Remember when this blog was about (in)accessibility, travel and life on wheels?

It’s kinda morphed into a wedding-planning stress-fest, which still includes all of the above. Stick with me here.

In the midst of writing emails, being poked with dress-pins and sometimes sobbing over song choices, I have been doing some work.

I’m part of a website start-up which will focus on listing accessible travel accommodation for disabled people, with an opportunity to read/share reviews on such places, book from the site and contact property-owners and other people users of the site.

We’re trying to get an idea of the kinds of information to include on the site, and there has been a survey developed to let people to share their opinions.

And I thought of all you wonderful people.

If you are disabled, or if you travel with someone who is (say for instance, on a honeymoon. Or something.), please click on the link to let us know what you think:

http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/Website_Accessible_Holiday_Properties

The survey is quick and powered by SurveyMonkey.

Thanks for your thoughts!

Thinking Outside The Blog

Confession time. When I started this blog, I was angry. Angry about uneven pavements that may or may not have dog-shit on them. Angry about inaccessible buildings and accessible toilets being used as storage cupboards.  Because, if you keep a damn fridge in there, it becomes  inaccessible. Angry about being called a ‘wheelchair’ on the bus, and always having to say: There’s a person in it, too.

I wanted to write about all of that, and my boyfriend and my cat.

I wanted to write about the frustrations and the fun times and connect with people who could relate on any level. I also apparently wanted to post photos of coffee.

I wanted to write stuff and always know where it was. I also have pages in filing cabinets, and purple notebooks and green notebooks and teal notebooks. I have five different novels on three different computers. I have lines on receipts and envelopes. The blog is less dusty. But maybe no less coffee-stained.

I blogged when I got engaged, and when I gave my cat to my friend. I blogged when my Dad got cancer.

I still wanted to connect with people, and now we have more levels to choose from (!)

I’m not the pissed off person who started this blog. Sure, I’d like uneven pavements evened out, I don’t want to have to drag out a mop and bucket to pee. Although, that might be useful if there’s no accessible toilet at all.

I’m still referred to as a ‘wheelchair’ on the bus, but the person using  it has places to go. Sometimes, to work. Lately, to wedding dress fittings. Could be worse.

Which brings me to something new I’ve been thinking about for the blog. Guest posts. There will be a blogging hiatus happening while I get married and honeymooned. This I promised myself. And Sarge.

When I get back, and possibly while I’m away, I’ll be looking for guest posts from:

Disabled people who see the funny side of living with a disability.

Parents raising their disabled children to be adults who see the funny side of living with a disability.

Disabled parents (allow me to project a little.)

PS. Blogging hiatus will be from June 8^th to July 1. I’ll come back married with more stories, including travel journals of Bruges and Barcelona. And a wedding post. Or two. Of course.

PPS. While I love real stories, I’m not into sharing inspiration porn.

3. Email creativeconnection(at)gmail.com if you’re interested in writing a post for Gin & Lemonade.

Thanks,

Lorna

Post idea from: my brain and The Daily Post.

My Island Diaries: Armadale, Skye

Are We There Yet?

I can’t say much about my third hair and make-up trial. Because y’know, my future husband reads this blog. But I will say: Jackpot! He’s a lucky man.

After I slapped myself in the face with make-up remover, I let him back in the living-room. We were waiting to go to Skye for the week. Off to Dad and Anne’s new house. With a separate suitcase just for books.

Dad called and said, ‘I’ll be there at 1.30.’ And then 4.30. And then 7.30.

At about 8 o’clock we loaded the books and the chair into a rented truck, and set off after a round of Luggage Jenga.

‘Are we there yet?’ I chirped from the back.

‘You still have glitter on your face,’ said Sarge.

‘Do not.’

‘Do, too.’

Take It To The Bridge

We missed all the ferries. So we drove up and over to the bridge. In the snow, with the radio tuned to this show.

Anne called a weather and traffic hotline, and someone actually gave us the right information.

I fell asleep and woke up when Dad swerved to avoid hitting a deer.

Welcome home, I thought.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

At about two in the morning I unfolded myself from the back of the truck, did a sliding jump to the ground, and looked up to the stars. ‘Hello, lovely old people,’ I said. I may have winked. Except I’m not co-ordinated enough, so I blinked.

Within minutes of stepping into the house, Sarge was reaching over my head to hit the light in the spare room.

Darkness and silence, until, ‘I didn’t even start with glitter on my face.’

‘OK, it was just your eyes, then,’ said Sarge.

‘Good save,’ I said.

Coffee and Hope

The next morning brought new furniture for Dad and Anne’s new place. I sat in the kitchen with coffee and a book because I always bring my own chair. I transferred onto the new couch before my coffee got cold.

‘How’s the book?’

‘Anne Frank is in the attic. But I’m not giving anything away.’

That night we went to a pub for dinner. And talked about the wedding while I broke my No Drinking ‘Til June rule. Several times.

The accessible toilet was so big, I could have slept in it. Even bigger than the one I slept in that one time in France.

Chips With Everything

Dad, Sarge and I were in a diner-type-thing, talking about the wedding.

An older couple (of tourists) was sitting at the next table trying to figure out why everything on the menu came with chips. Strangely, they reminded me of myself about 20 years ago. Because my first kinda-sorta meal here was egg and chips. Part of me is still waiting for a bag of Wise chips with that. I’ve been here a long time.

The Art of ‘Fuck It!’

An hour after eating, we went swimming. I can walk in water. Not on it, but in it. And so, I paced the pool while Dad and then Sarge did laps. I used to swim really well and then I stopped, and these days I’m never far from the edge. This time, I blamed it on the kids’ party in the next lane. The water was really warm, and I didn’t want to think about why.

I scraped my feet on the way back into the chair. But I had to get off the floor.

Later, in Dad’s bathroom, I’m sitting in the shower, hoping I’ve air-dried enough not to slip on the floor while I transfer to my chair, parked at an actually jaunty angle, waiting for my less jaunty, more nervous ass on the seat. I don’t know the angles of this bathroom, how many steps and swings and pivots it takes to get from A to B and back. But the thing is I’ve thought about too much. I’ve thought about falling. And I can’t move. So. I wait. For half an hour.

‘Fuck it,’ I said. And I kind of launch myself from one seat to another. I got in, so I got out.

Target Practice

The next day, with the help of these guys, I got to launch arrows into a target. No, the target wasn’t Sarge.

They might have moved the target closer. And then I shot over it.

I needed that. After a few moments of ‘my body doesn’t move like that’, I needed a day of, ‘Oh yes, it does.’

As I launched the arrows farther and father away, I pep-talked to myself. ‘Let’s bust some shit,’ I said. And I did.

My argument is invalid.

Things Work Out

The night before we left, I didn’t want to go. Or, I wanted to know when we’d be back. The silence and the stars have always done good things to me.

I’d gone quiet when suddenly, a new friend said, ‘Things have a way of working out, Lorna.’ How many people were with me at that moment? All the stars.

I looked at Sarge. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Things work out.’

On The Road: The Nerdy Backpackers

Em’s puppy. And our stuff. In a car I did not get sick in.

‘We look like a couple of nerdy backpackers.’

‘That’s because we are.’

On Monday, Sarge and I went to Newcastle (ish) to visit a friend of mine from University (the first one). She was the friend from this post and featured in the beginning of this one. Through no fault of our own we’d seen each other all of twice in five years. Before Monday, Em hadn’t met Sarge, and we are going on three.

Because I don’t have a job, and Sarge had a week off from his, we boarded a South-bound train after packing George and the robot and bumping into some coffee on the way.

Now. Another little known fact about me is that I can actually make myself sick with excitement. Really. Being happy/nervous/excited about anything makes me throw up. Or dry-heave. When I was a kid and the carnival moved in next door, I had to breathe into a paper bag before we left the house. One fateful night, I got to the top of the ferris wheel and threw up. I was up there with a friend who was a boy who decided then we should see other people. The whole experience left me with a phobia of vomiting.

These days, Sarge knows to either hold my hair back or get out of the way. And I do my part by skipping breakfast on what I call ‘high excitement’ days. And so, I didn’t have breakfast or lunch on the train.

When we got to the station, I got a text: I’ve had to stop the car and throw up. Be there soon. Xxx

Snap, I thought.

‘See’, I said to Sarge. ‘It isnae just me.’

So we went to the station pub. Sat for awhile, getting updates from Em. ‘I’m in the bathroom, waiting on Mum to drive us back now.’

‘This reunion is like ripping a Band-Aid off.’ I said, deciding to have a beer.

Her Mum found us first, recognising me by my hair.  It’s still big.

After staring at each other for a while we got in the car. I was in the back. Now. Maybe because of my aforementioned phobia, I’ve only been carsick once. On my thirteenth birthday. On the way to the zoo. Very exciting. We never made it to the zoo. Still, it was one of the best days of my life.

The point is, sitting back there on Monday, I didn’t think I’d get sick. Until I did.

We got to Em’s house. And her stairs were too narrow for me to walk up, so I went up on my butt. Another throwback from childhood.

As I actually dragged ass over the threshold, I said, ‘We’re staying awhile.’

We had curry and chocolate and Em told Sarge the unabridged versions of some rather legendary stories.

The next day, Em had stuff to do, so Sarge and I went exploring. We ended up in a book shop, of course. Sifting through the second-hand ones, Sarge found me a Hemingway. ‘For you,’ he said.

We left the shop after they checked and double-checked Sarge’s Scottish money. ‘This IS a different country.’ I said.

We went to Em’s Mum’s house for a roast dinner. ‘We’ll have to move the trampoline so Lorna can get through the garden.’ That’s not a sentence you hear every day.

That night Sarge was schooled in how to julienne carrots. I didn’t help because the last time I touched a carrot I julienned my fingers. Em’s Grandma and Aunt arrived and it was lovely and weird to sit in on someone else’s family.

I dragged ass back up the stairs and fell asleep before more embarrassing stories could be told.

The next day I made a great discovery. Nutella and banana pancakes. Any extra calories were burned on the way down the stars.

Em took us around more quaint little shops. Everything I saw made me want to trade in our Ikea furniture for more grown up pieces.

We found a pub where I had a sneaky slice of cheesecake and then went home to make a dent in the bottle of rum we brought as a housewarming gift.

The next day, before tackling the stairs for the last time, Em and I might have made Sarge watch Practical Magic.

‘You’re Aidan Quinn,’ I said to Sarge.

‘Who?’

‘Him.’

‘Cool.’

Before we headed to the station we took a picture of The Oma on Hadrian’s Wall.

It was raining when we got home to Edinburgh. Not very exciting. I didn’t even throw up.

Here are some more shots from the trip!

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The Oma Does Edinburgh

You may remember that we have a house guest. We’ve taken him out with us almost everywhere since his arrival.

Here is photographic evidence of The Oma’s adventures so far:

In my bag, ready for the pub.

Hugging some cider at Sofi’s:

Offering me a rose. Possibly drunk here:

Zombie coffee is good for hangovers:

More coffee at Artisan Roast.  He appreciated the signage:

Perusing Festival posters:

And enroute to a bookshop. His hosts didn’t buy any books. He wanted some postcards. No such luck.

In the middle of a celtic-knotted compass in The Meadows:

Posing in front of The Usher Hall.  Probably wondering if they need any robot guitarists.

Trying to blend in with the furniture at Frisky, after enjoying some of their frozen yogurt:

Maybe it was a sugar-high, but he was very happy to get to Edinburgh Castle:

And even happier to to see the Scottish flag: 

Here he is having a moment outside The Scottish Parliament:

And then Sarge took The Oma and George up Arthur’s Seat.

The boys go hillwalking:

And to prove they made it down from there…

We took The Oma to the movies.  To see Ted.  We thought it was appropriate somehow.

Some notes on the photos:

They are a joint effort.

Sarge climbed hills to get some of them.  He loves me that much.

The Oma reminds you to drink responsibly.

For more on The Oma’s adventures, please visit:  The Oma Today Project.

Stay tuned for:  The Oma Does Glasgow and The Oma Does Newcastle.

On The Road: Cambridge

Edinburgh — Peterborough – Cambridge — Peterborough — Edinburgh

We boarded the train with two backpacks, my butterfly bag and George Bailey-Penguin, our travel mascot.

I like train travel, and have come to accept the sometimes not-so-faint whiff of piss as part of the journey.

This time, I ignored it by reading Three To Get Deadly and eating chocolate-covered popcorn.

One hundred and fifty pages and an empty bag later, we arrived in Peterborough to catch the train to Cambridge.  The only thing possibly worthy of note is the fact that there was a wheelbarrow in the accessible toilet.

After one more, much shorter train journey, we met the wonderful Emily from Emily Drinking Tea and her equally wonderful husband and went off in the direction of their local pub where I broke my self-imposed no cider rule and had some lovely ice-cream.

On the way to their house afterwards, I lost count of the number of cyclists whizzing past, and we met a hedgehog not going nearly as fast.  It was all very quaint.

Now, our friends have a very lovely, but very narrow  house.  After we squeezed the chair in the front door, I found myself with an actual gin and lemonade in my hand.  It must have been a strong one, because I fell asleep watching The Thick of It, only waking up to actually drag ass up the stairs and check out their incongruously large bathroom.

The next morning, there was really strong coffee and Emily’s homemade bagels.

We took the scenic route into town along the river, and met Sarge’s friends for what turned out to be lunch, before getting lost in a bookshop.

Sarge and I came out with a pretty good combined haul and I may have taken some photos of the sky.  I do that when I’m happy.

We had really good Indian take-away and Emily’s homemade raspberry strudel, and I discovered my new favourite drink when elderflower cordial was added to  another gin and lemonade.  I might have pretended I was Anne Shirley for a moment.

We stayed up until one o’clock and I really did fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next morning, we finished off the bagels and watched Mr Cat enthralled with an iPad.

Too soon, it was up a taxi ramp and time for a backwards goodbye.  Our train snacks didn’t taste as good this time.  But I did start and finish The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop.

Sarge and I arrived in Edinburgh and scrambled our stuff.

‘Where’s your butterfly bag?’ asked Sarge.

‘Stuffed in your bag.’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘I thought you had it.’

‘Well, I thought you had it.’

Luckily I’d given Sarge my phone, which is probably why I forgot my bag.  After something akin to the scene where they realise Kevin is Home Alone, I texted Emily and asked her to have a look around, hoping it was safely upstairs.  It was.  And now it’s in the post.

I arrived home feeling lighter.  Maybe it was the lovely trip.   Maybe because I was bagless.  Maybe both.

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Bow-Ties Available at Reception

Regular readers will know that my boyfriend sometimes wears a kilt and walks around with a knife in his sock, in the name of Scottish traditional dress.  His 90 year-old Gran recently requested that he get fully decked out to attend her birthday dinner, and he obliged.  With a little help.

Last April, he bought a full kilt when friends of ours got married.   He wore the  jacket and my father’s tweed waist-coat.  This caused me to get all misty-eyed and gooey, but that could be another post.

A few weeks ago, we packed a bag and his kilt, and stayed at a hotel closer to the birthday dinner.

The accessible room wasn’t, actually.  And the quest to find another one was like something out of Goldilocks/Fawlty Towers/The Twilight Zone.  The third key opened a door to a room that was usable for the one night we used it.  We brought my chair and Sarge’s kilt over the threshold and all was right with the world.  Sarge put on his kilt and went back into the bag for his bow-tie.  Wasn’t there.  No romantic-looking silk cravat, either.  Not in the bag, under the bag, or in his shoe.

‘How do I look without it?’

‘Fine.’

‘That means not fine.’

I shrugged.  Something WAS missing.

‘Should I phone my Mum?’

‘What for?’

‘To see if Dad has a tie?’

‘You can try.’

‘Is that like ‘fine’?’

‘Maybe.’

And so, he called his Mum.

No tie.

‘Is there time to go to a shop and get one?’

There wasn’t.

Five minutes later, his Dad called Reception and the same woman who showed us into our room brought Sarge a bow-tie.  From her brother-in-law down the street.

‘That’s pay-back for the room mix-up,’ I said when she left.

I have been traveling, and living, all my life; no room is the perfect fit.  That’s true for anyone.  What’s accessible to me in my chair may be inaccessible to someone else.  I know work is always being done to improve accessibility. Somewhere, everywhere.  I’ve helped to do some of it.  One place/attitude at a time.

But there are times when I have access issues.  Most all of my issues are access issues.  When life gets interesting, as I like to say, I choose to laugh and write about it.  Last time I had an ‘access issue’, I got free beer.  Most recently, compensation came in the form of a clip-on bow-tie for my boyfriend.  I can take, and appreciate, both.

Image via Wikipedia

Give Me Your Best Shot

And so, I’m back in front of Hemingway with a cup of coffee a safe distance away.  We got to Glasgow after dark on Christmas Eve, met with hugs and pretzels.  We then settled down to watch Bad Santa for the second time in 24 hours.  Followed by Mr Popper’s Penguins, during which I fell asleep.  Sarge still hasn’t forgiven me.

The air-mattress was the same height as the couch.  I may have rolled from one to the other and continued to snore like a girl.

Me getting up from an air-mattress is like something out of an I Love Lucy episode.  On Christmas day, Sarge was up first, and the see-saw action was just the momentum I needed.

I may have cried at the end of Miracle on 34^th Street, somewhere between pancakes and presents, and before Poker.  I may have cried at the end of the game, too.  Not  because I lost.  Because I got a little over-whelmed.  I do that.  It makes me frustratingly loveable.

On Boxing Day, Sarge and I took a stroll to the coffee-shop where we ended our seven-hour first date.   Then we went to the pub, because the Ferris wheel was closed.

We went home to left-overs and Home Alone.  I may have cried at the end.

We left the next day, after planning our next trips.

And today, I’m sitting here lining up next year and going over this one.

Here are my highlights, thrills and one spill of 2011.

I welcomed this year surrounded by loved ones and strangers on an island.  I then came home to my shrinking wardrobe, and reminisced about a pen.

In February, I admitted I had piles, and found poetry in one of them.

In March, I renewed my passport and turned 30.

In April, a nurse named Karen super-glued my head, and I went to work with a black eye.

In May, I admitted that I grew up thinking Nina Simone was a man, amongst other things.

In June, Sarge met my New York family.

In July, I went back to Glasgow for laughs and cheesecake, and came back to Edinburgh and got locked in a toilet.

In August, I fried my computer and got caught in the rain.

In September, I left my phone at work.  Hilarity ensued.  Apparently.  I may have also said my boyfriend is better than coffee.  Maybe.  OK, I did.  I also stayed on Island Number 3 of 2011.

In October, I made a decision.

In November, I made a pact with my Dad.  I’m still working on it.

And earlier this month, I said I don’t sleep with my colleagues, which might have confused cinema staff.

What about you?  What are your highlights of 2011?

Sarge and I are on the road again tomorrow.  Happy New Year when it comes!

(Inspired by life and Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop)

Cracking the window and lighting things up for 2012.

My Island Diaries: Mull

Wherein I get fresh air and new perspectives, remember promises and maybe change my mind.

Edinburgh – Glasgow, holiday o’clock.

Sarge turns on all the lights in our bedroom to make sure I am actually awake. We have cupcakes for breakfast.  They are neither red nor velvet.

I put on striped socks, a museum t-shirt and a Mom-made sweater. We take a taxi to the train station and get there with time to spare.

This time I actually booked ramp assistance. Someone in a suit and tie sets the ramp between the train and the platform, and we are officially on holiday.

The biker sitting next to us is reading his Kindle. My paper and ink book hides my curled lip. And I like bikers.

Glasgow – Oban

Our second train of the morning has facing seats, but we face no-one. We figure the people behind the names on the reservation slips have over-slept.

Sarge reads about 20 pages of Blood Meridian while I finish When God Was a Rabbit. I cried into my ham sandwich.

Oban – Mull

We got our unreserved ferry tickets and joined the queue. Aside from a family with twins, we were the youngest travellers.

We ramped onto the ferry and rolled into the bar for expensive coffee and on-tap lemonade with very little syrup in it.

Sometime later I asked, ‘We moving?’

‘We have fifteen minutes left.’

Once I realised this, I got woozy, of course. I might have used Sarge’s beard as my horizon.

As we docked, a rainbow appeared. We were on holiday.

Mull, Thursday.

The rain greeted us off the boat. We were on an island where time stretched before us. I used the last of my phone signal to tell The Crew (Dad, Anne, and Anne’s Mum) where to find us.

The coffee-shop had about five awkward steps, so we followed the signs to the pub. We were half-way through our fish and chips when The Crew arrived. I might have taken a photo of the map before I said, ‘Hello, I’m on the map!’

We got to the cottage where I snapped another map, and read the back of all the the books on the shelf before I took off my coat.

I took off my shoes and started Notes on a Scandal before the coffee was all the way brewed. Dad and Sarge started the fire. I gleefully switched off my phone, asking Sarge to take the photos so I didn’t have to look at it all. ‘Start with the lobster on the wall,’ I said. Because, well, there was a lobster on the wall. He didn’t. ‘You already have a lobster,’ he said. Yes, really.

The kitchen caught me in the throat, reminding me of the one I did most of my growing up in. We had pasta for dinner. I still find it funny I have to rely on my father for my Italian food fix.

We went back into the living-room and ended up watching a documentary on eagles. I fell asleep before they landed. I woke up long enough to ask if I’d been snoring.

‘Like a girl,’ Sarge said.

Fair enough, I suppose.

Iona, we thought, Friday.

I write and drink coffee at the kitchen table. I am in a time-warp while the others take showers and put on socks.

We get in the car and have ice-cream before lunch on the way to the Iona ferry.

Now. Because of some loophole, we can’t take the car on the ferry. So, Iona is closed to us, kinda. I hate loopholes. I made several mental notes, and the adventure of the day becomes navigating around the gift shop and hunting the elusive accessible toilet. There is one, but it’s Radar key locked. It’s a universal key that opens all the Radar toilets. Well, if you have a Radar key that is. I have two. Neither of which were in my bag when I needed one.

The other toilets were gated, with no attendant to be found. I tried to walk through, but even my skinny ass didn’t fit.

Sarge and I trooped back to the car.

‘What’s the problem?’ Dad asked.

‘It’s locked, and I don’t have my key.’

Dad took his keys out of the ignition and waved one of my Radar keys in the mirror.

‘That’s mine!’

‘Aye, and you gave it to me for times such as this.’

‘I’m so smart. Gimme.’

Sarge opened the door and honestly, I don’t remember much after that.

Back at the cottage, it was time to tackle the shower. Because my chair didn’t fit in through the door, I transferred to another one, brought in from the kitchen.

I looked at the step into the shower. ‘Well, that’s excessive.’ But I took Sarge’s hand, stepped up and launched myself in anyway. Onto yet another kitchen chair.

I took my own chair to the kitchen table, where we had scallops with apple and cream sauce and then played Poker for chips and Goldfish crackers. Let’s do the time-warp again.

On the road, Saturday.

We take a guided van tour around the island, in search of eagles and seals. We stopped at various points for fresh air and photo opps. The guide had straps that hooked onto the front of my chair, and I can now say that I’ve been dragged up a hill. When we got to the top, I said, ‘Thanks, boys. Can we do that again?’

I stayed in the van for the last stops, happy to have the doors open, sharing biscuits and binoculars with Anne’s Mum. Sarge was out at the very edge.  Dad circled back to van to ask me, ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Looking for penguins.’

We drove back through late rain and then sun to another card game before another night on couch cushions.

On the road again, Sunday.

No time for Dad’s pancakes, so we had cereal before the others packed the car. I stayed in the kitchen as long as I could, and as I left said, ‘Goodbye, house.’

I am not a city girl.

We stopped for bacon rolls before the others took the car on the Oban ferry and Sarge and I walked up. And talked of times that aren’t now.

The Crew found us on the ferry and I may asked for a shot of Anne’s Kindle. Maybe.

We got off the ferry, and had fish and chips next to the train station, before The Crew left for the drive back. I may have cried. Maybe. I hate endings. I much prefer hellos.

I finished Red Dust Road before we even got to Glasgow. I was too bleary-eyed to read on the second train. Reality was creeping in already.

‘Where should we go next?’ I asked as we sat with cups of tea in our very-city flat in Edinburgh.

‘Anywhere we want to go,’ Sarge said.

(Taken from my journal, written around a family trip to Mull, September 2011.  Our Raasay trip can be found here.)

Some of Sarge’s photos (and the one of me on the map), used with permission!

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