Scotland South
On our final day in Glasgow, we visited the Kelvin Grove Art Gallery and Museum because, well, you really need to.

It is an amazing collection of art, sculpture, rare exhibits, and oddities, sorta like the Burrell collection, but in an olde Worlde building that, along with bags of “fading days of the Empire Charm,” holds a massive pipe organ. And every day at one o’clock in the afternoon, someone comes out and plays it. (Except for Sunday, that’s at three o’clock, so don’t show up at one and blame me that no one is operating the organ. Just wait two hours.)
You won’t regret it; the sound is amazing.
And, as a bonus, they have a really posh café.
The next morning, we caught the 9:45 to Edinburgh and, in less time than my daily commute used to take (back in those dark days when I had a job), we were at Waverly station.

The weather had been predicted to be typically Scottish (READ: a bit shit) but it was unexpectedly sunny and warm, so we hiked to the Royal Botanic Gardens.

It was ever so pleasant and, after a good wander through the bucolic grounds, my wife and I, and several dozen hornets, enjoyed the outdoor seating at the café.

Back at tourist central, we visited Gladstone’s Land, a sister site of the Tenement exhibit in Glasgow. This one was better, however. It was on several floors, and each floor represented a different era, and each era had an enthusiastic volunteer explaining all about it. A couple from Atlanta, Georgia, happened to be there at the same time, and by the end, them, us, and the volunteer had a nice conversation about life, the universe and everything.



Then we went to the Gladstone Café (not all of us, just me and my wife).
After that we strolled up and down the Royal Mile and had a look at a few of the tat shops. We then visited The Writer’s Museum, something I had been looking forward to that turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. It was basically exhibits about Sir Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, and (of course) Robert Burns, featuring random items belonging to them (including locks of hair).


By then we were Edinburghed out, and we wanted to have dinner in a place that was not themed after a hairy, horned cow.

The good thing about Edinburgh is, the tourist area is fairly confined, so we did not need to trudge far to find ourselves beyond the reach of Kilt-clad calendars, stuffed Highland Coos, and tartan ties.

Once freed from the Tourist District, we went in search of a Pizza Express. What we found was Amarone, which wasn’t a Pizza Express, but it was nice, nonetheless.

It was a grand visit, but I note that, last time I was in Edinburgh, I had an actual camera with me.

Next: Mull