The ruins of St. Anthony’s Chapel in Holyrood Park, Edinburgh, Scotland
It was our first time in Scotland and the end of our trip. After two weeks of near perfect May weather, our last day met us with a chill. Rain came down, fog rolled in, and it was a precise reflection of our mood. We were sad. More than that. We were downright melancholy. For at that time we had no idea whether we would be able to return to Scotland. Was this a once-in-a-lifetime thrill? Did we just fall head over heels for a place that we would never again lay our eyes upon? It is, after all, an expensive proposition to fly almost 6,000 miles and to lodge and live in a foreign country for two weeks. And to my way of thinking, if we can’t go for at least two weeks, then why bother going at all. It is a long, expensive journey to only take a small taste of the place. And I don’t want only a taste! I want a whole, heaping plate full.
Feeling glum, Mr. C and I decided to get out for awhile rather than sulk about our morning flight home. So, we did a little shopping, attended a wonderful afternoon church service at Grace Church Leith (an overwhelmingly emotional experience for we two sad saps), and finally, as the weather cleared a little, we made our way over to Holyrood Park.
It. Was. Breathtaking.
It was magical.
It was bittersweet.