A BEAR FOR THE AGES

Books were treasured items when I was very young.  I can remember whenever I had a case of serious sniffles, or symptoms of flu, or an especially nasty case of Chicken Pox as I did in first grade, I would be confined to bed with a few books scattered nearby.  Bed, at that time, was in a shared room with my sister.  It was a small room, but bright, with both a north and an east window.

We didn't have a lot of books.  As with everything in the late '40s, we had a few of this and one of that.  Not like today's children who have a lot of both this and that.  I remember two books of poetry--a large format book filled with Mother Goose rhymes and colored illustrations, and a slightly smaller, and more serious, dark blue book--Robert Louis Stevenson's "A Child's Garden of Verses."  I have to guess that both books were gifts to my sister...perhaps when she was born. (The '40s were also a time of sharing and hand-me-downs.) 

I remember preferring Mother Goose to Robert Lewis Stevenson, but I loved the illustrations in both. My worldview was formed from those drawings--which means my ideal landscape and cityscape and architectural design all date from 18th and 19th century England.  It's why I sometimes think the Good Lord planned for me to be born in England, but in the rush and flurry and fury of World War II, dropped me in Dodge City, Kansas.  It was an honest mistake--the Army Air Force Base in my home town had originally been intended for Royal Air Force pilots.  No doubt, it was just another wartime paperwork snafu.

As far as owning a book to claim as mine, that would be "The Littlest Angel" which, much to my surprise, is still in print.  I loved "The Littlest Angel" and, although it's technically a Christmas book, I read it again and again and again. It was not an easy book to read--it's difficult to learn of a small boy in heaven--all by himself--trying so hard to be good, and failing at it again and again.  The ending, however, is more than wonderful so, if you buy it for a grandchild, DO NOT let him or her become depressed and put it aside.  He must read it all, for the rewards are rich. 

This reminiscing has led us, in a roundabout way, to what I had intended to be my starting point:  The 100 Aker Wood and Winnie the Pooh.  Our set of four Winnie the Pooh books: "Winnie the Pooh," "House at Pooh Corner," "When We Were Very Young," and "Now We are Six" were also baby gifts for Mary.  The books were copyrighted and published in the late '20s, so our editions would have been very early.   I could listen to tales about Pooh and Rabbit and Owl and Eeyore and Kanga and Baby Roo by the hour and...I did, if I could plead with just enough intensity to win over a kind adult. Fortunately, by the time I could actually read the books by myself, my sister had moved on to movie magazines and Farley Granger, letting me store A.A. Milne's four masterpieces on my own set of shelves.

To the left of our front door was a set of stairs that led to an upstairs bedroom.  They were enclosed, but had a west facing window.  For me, those stairs were a cozy private place where I could read, play with my stuffed animals or spread out my paper dolls.  Each step became a different room, or a different house, or a different part of Pooh's world.  I spent hours on those stairs, and that is exactly where I read and re-read every tale about Pooh's adventures with Christopher Robin. 

Many years later, after Mary and I had both graduated into the Adult World, I learned she had packed up the Pooh books and taken them to California to use in her classroom.  I felt terribly let down, although I hadn't looked at them in years and, after all, they were her books.  My own kids owned Disney-fied Pooh books and paraphernalia, but it was not the same.  Not even close.  I always missed Ernest Shephard's line drawings. No amount of technicolor could make Pooh as lovable as those spare illustrations.

A few months ago, I was working on a writing project, searching for quotes, and realized only Pooh could cover the situation.  I dropped into Amazon, and YES! Pooh was still in print.  I ordered the classic boxed edition which was a copy of those I had loved as a child, and waited impatiently for the mailman to drop them at the front door.  He did, and I've been reading ever since.  No one is as sweet and lovable as Pooh.  He describes himself as a "Bear of Very Little Brain," but, in actuality, he is a Bear of Very Large Heart, and that is enough for me.  

OUR SNOWBIRDS ARE FLEEING

Despite my best resolutions, I lost the first half of April while my back was turned.  I know...I was going to stop doing that, then whumpf.  All of a sudden taxes were due, and the snowbirds who populate our lovely retirement community, were packing to leave.  Sometimes, this is a sad season for those of us left behind.

Retirement communities throughout the south report that at least half of their residents are part-timers.  Sometimes it's a few more, sometimes less.  Here, in Sun City Grand near Phoenix, we've always heard it's about 40%.  I have no reason to doubt that so I'll go with it.  In our particular cul de sac, which contains six homes, two will soon be empty.  M. and T. will go back to Iowa--although I think T. would like to stay a little longer.  As the snowbirds begin to leave, tee-times are much easier to get, and T. does love his golf. In the corner house, M. and A. have a bit more vacationing to do, but they'll be packed and on the road by mid-June.  We're luckier than some.  My friend, C., is the only person left in her neighborhood at this time of year.  That I wouldn't like.  I'm not terribly gregarious, but I do enjoy my neighbors.

I was born and raised and lived nearly my entire life in the same community in southwest Kansas.  It was a community that remained static.  If you moved there, you stayed there.  Your neighborhood was your neighborhood for years and years.  Sometimes the goings and comings in Grand are disorienting.

Tonight, we will attend a party with our Small Group to say "goodbye" to those who are leaving. We're a group of seventeen who have met together weekly for more than 15 years. One couple has already left. Two couples will stay for the duration, although both will travel during the summer.  The other thirteen members will find their way to Oregon, Washington, Wyoming, and Minnesota within a few weeks.  We'll reunite in the fall, and be happy to do so, but it's still not exactly the same.

My Book Club will grow smaller.  We expanded a bit this past spring to twelve members simply because we want to have enough to meet each summer month.  (Aside:  For those of you who are regular readers, I did suggest "Jane Eyre" for June and it was accepted!  I started reading it a week or two ago and I'm loving it.  I do think I may have left it unread all those years ago, although considering it was 1958 when I received it, who knows?)

Our Theological Discussion group dwindles down to a handful, but we have learned that makes for rich discussions that are impossible in a crowd of twenty or so.  Summer, then, can be an advantage.

My KKG Group disbands entirely, but thanks to MJ and her efforts, those of us in town meet for lunch once a month; but BC's Fishing Club simply shuts down.

It's easy to find a seat at church, but the choir goes on hiatus for lack of members.  My wonderful RISE Education classes will continue although the choices are more limited. We can find empty lanes at our lap pool nearly anytime of the day, and seldom have to wait at our local restaurants.  Some eateries (bless their hearts) extend Happy Hour in order to fill their tables; others offer additional specials.  To every season there comes some benefit.  Ours is less traffic, fewer lines, and better deals.

Ah well...it is what it is.  We'll miss our faraway friends and look forward to their return.  In the meantime, we text, e-mail, Facebook, and enjoy quieter times with our summertime friends.  And, secretly, we do take a certain pride in the fact that we are a hardy bunch--115 degrees is not for the weak of spirit.        

QUOTATIONS

At writing class last week, our instructor strolled in carrying two bursting-at-the-seams shopping bags.  After a few minutes, we each took an item from one bag or the other and held it until everyone had a turn. The  shopping bags were filled with decorative miniature pillows, boxes, paintings, plaques, all with quotations written on them. Sandy loves quotations and has filled her home with favorites. Filled every nook and cranny.

Assignment Number 1:  Spend five minutes writing about the quotation we just pulled out of the sack, and then we would read what we had written.

Assignment Number 2:  We should spend the next week looking through our own homes and, assuming we were quote collectors, find a favorite and write about it.  Well--this sounded easier than some of the other assignments Sandy has handed out, so I was on board immediately because I do like to write about what a quotation might mean...at least in my rather limited little world.

So, let me say right up front, that it is no wonder I'm not living an inspired life.  My lovely two bedroom, two bath Del Webb home is very short on quotations--inspirational or otherwise.  I had nearly given up looking when I wandered into the Utility Room and there, finally, was a decorative board full of quotations beside the door to the garage so that I would always be inspired as I left to run errands. I remembered right away that I had found this little gem at Target, and as I purchased it I knew it would create a new beginning in my life.  Daily inspiration...or something like that.  So, let's take a look:

"Your Life is NOW.  Seize it and Make it AMAZING."  OK--I can do that.  Or, at the time I plopped down $40.00 for this plaque I thought I would do it.  But, over time I've simply looked past it, and all attempts at amazement-hood have gone by the wayside.  We'd better move on.

"Discover Your PASSION and Pursue It."  That is a good one, don't you think?  But, I don't know how much Passion I can really muster up at this point in my life.  I'm not sure either my sister nor I were raised with a passionate sort of mindset.  I might have to come back to it.

"Be Honest, Generous & Kind."  Well, of course, be honest, generous and kind.  That goes without saying.  We all try to be honest, generous and kind.  That's who we are.

"Be Brave & Wild At Heart."  I love that one.  I don't know if I even know anyone who is Brave and Wild at Heart, but it sounds wonderful.  Actually, I've lived through some times that required bravery simply to crawl out of bed in the morning.  I'm sure we've all experienced that.  But, Wild at Heart? Wow!  I've always been a little sad that I missed Wild.  I know there were times when my mother thought I was Wild, acted as if I were Wild, but she was wrong.  Oh, so wrong.  She had no idea what Wildness was going on in that sorority house, and I wasn't invited to be a part of it!  Sadly, I put "Wild at Heart" back on the wall.

"This is Your Time."  Well, yes it is.  It's mine, and everyone else who's still kicking time.  Live in the moment sort of time.  Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today time.  There's never a better time-time..  Tomorrow, I have to have this Assignment done time. I am in trouble time.

I'm searching my house in earnest now.  I'm down to paging through my Franklin Planner--I always order the "Seven Habits" Planner that includes a quote on each page.  If nothing else, the "Seven Habits" quotes are serious and heavy.  They're meant to be life-changing and they certainly can be, but, heavy.  A little too heavy for me..

Downhearted, I wander into my kitchen toward the refrigerator and there...  How could I have forgotten this wall-hanging?  My all time favorite quote...my mantra..my guidepost, especially for moments like this:

"POUR YOURSELF A DRINK, PUT ON SOME LIPSTICK AND PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER"  Elizabeth Taylor

And I did.

"THE 52 LISTS PROJECT"

I received a wonderful book for Christmas.  It's called "The 52 Lists Project" by Moorea Seal.  Seal is an example (for me, anyway) of a person who is achieving her dreams by taking advantage of today's technology.  Not that she wouldn't have achieved them without technology, but the Big T provided a platform to display her talents to a wider audience, and she has grabbed hold. Her bio tells us that she is:  A retailer, a designer, and an online curator.  She has a fashion and lifestyle brand called Moorea Seal, from which she contributes seven per cent of proceeds to non-profits.  I noted it is 7% of proceeds.  Not 7% of profits.  I like that.

But, back to her book.  It is, per the title, a nicely designed book of illustrations, brief instructions and empty lines perfectly spaced for 52 lists--one for each week of the year.  I love lists.  I have lists all over the house and cannot begin a project without a list.  If I don't have a list I lose my way.  Which may be why a rather large writing project I'm involved with has been such a bugger.  I didn't make a list.  I thought it would fall into place, but it hasn't.  Obviously, I made a mistake by not being true to myself.  Right now I feel that I should stop writing this essay and make the damned list because I don't want my big project to turn out as a half-done piece of work laid on the guest room bed with the thirty never-finished, half-done pieces of work that didn't come to fruition because I didn't have a list. Thank you.  I'm done now.

LIST ONE:
This list, designed for the first week of the year, requested that I list my goals and dreams for 2016.  It didn't demand resolutions.  It asked for goals and dreams.  That, in itself, put me a little off-balance. At 71, do I even have goals and dreams?  Of course I do.  Everyone has goals and dreams, but people like me misplace them under the stack of resolutions.  And then, after a few months, they're not just misplaced.  They're lost.  Probably thrown away in a fit of cleaning, never to be remembered again.

I worked on List One for the entire week.  I incorporated it into my early morning routine and determined that I would dig up at least one goal or dream each day.  By the end of the week, I had actually created ten goals and/or dreams.  Well, really nine...I stretched one into two parts.  But still, I was pretty pleased with myself.  Goals and dreams are hard.  Resolutions are much easier to list--we know our shortcomings even if we don't want to think about them.  Goals and dreams aren't nearly so clear-cut.  They're our mental stretching exercise, and if you haven't done that for awhile (and I hadn't) you might wake up a bit stiff, sore and scared the next morning.  Dreams and goals require action.  Often, action we haven't practiced before.  At least, not successfully.

I used words in my Goals and Dreams List like "connect," "balance," "relax," "highest and best self," "focus," "authentic," and "challenge."  And that's only half the list...

This week--Week Fourteen--I'm required to List the Ways I Can Cleanse My Life For Spring.  These lists require more than a little thought for me, and I have grown to love that.  For the moment, I'm cleansing my life by cleaning out a few drawers, reviewing my notes from a personal development webinar I attended a couple of years ago, and turning off the TV.

Next week I will be challenged to list my Dream Trips.  That will be fairly easy for me.  I can remember the best of the best, and research a few more.  That's the beauty of the 52 List Project.  It's wonderfully balanced between our past and our future, and that's a good place to be.  We learn from the one and thus, are able to enrich the other.

Amen.  

ON THE BONNIE, BONNIE BANKS...

Well, sadly, this is it.  The last day of our journey--if you don't count tomorrow's haul from Edinburgh to London to Phoenix.  We do love that we can fly non-stop from London to Phoenix with British Air. I've always hated the hours spent in New York or Chicago or Atlanta waiting for connections between wherever and home.  The only thing that could make our trip better tomorrow would be comfortable seats.  I think the plane we flew to London was one of the original 747's from decades ago--it was well worn, and a bit dingy, but it got us to here and we'll expect it to return us to Phoenix just as carefully and safely. What always surprises me, and makes me moan, is how many people are packed into the fuselage of the aircraft every single time we decide to fly.  It was a full house three weeks ago when we flew from west to east.  Fingers crossed for the return trip.

This morning, we'll visit Loch Lomond to enjoy its scenic beauty and walking trails.  Our lunch has been planned at David Marshall Lodge.  It's billed as a lunch of sandwiches and scone with jam. We've had two or three similar lunches, and the sandwiches have always been very good.  They've been daintily cut into halves or quarters so one never feels like a pig when eating three or four. If God is with me and my research is accurate, the David Marshall Lodge would have been built for a visit from Queen Victoria during the years that extensive water-works were being created at Loch Katrine. The populace had not intended to build anything for the Queen's visit, but she demanded a Royal Cottage and so it was done.  As she arrived, the obligatory 21-gun salute was performed with such enthusiasm that all the windows in the brand new Royal Cottage were blown out and, suddenly, the Queen had nowhere to stay.  That rather seems like Divine Retribution to me.  A few years ago, we visited a beautiful house in Ireland that had bankrupted its owners as they remodeled, replaced furniture, and completed renovations required by their royal visitor, who happened to be the very same Queen Victoria.  She always seemed so sweet in her pictures--short, chubby, mourning her sweet Albert for decades.  But, maybe that was a ruse.

Loch Lomond, the more famous of the two lochs we'll visit today, is also the larger, stretching 24 miles in length.  Per Wikipedia, it lies on the Highland Boundary Fault that separates the Scottish Highlands from the Lowlands.  Research suggests that much of the beauty credited to Loch Lomond is due to the nearly 30 islands scattered here and there across its surface.  I just found out that one of the islands--Inchconnachan--is home to a colony of wallabies.  They are a very long way from home. What a surprise if you sailed onto that island beach and began unloading your picnic goodies, only to be surrounded by wallabies.  Who knew?

We'll be going for a walk in order to have more and better views of Loch Lomond, and our choices are the short walk or the long walk.  We decide on the long walk.

The short walk, we learn later, is not only shorter (as advertised), it is much more civilized if these rocky steps are any indication.

The longer walk, by contrast, clings to the edge of Loch Lomond, but if you don't fall in during the first hundred or so feet, you're good for the entire journey.  In the picture above, we're just starting out and will soon find ourselves on the beach of the loch.

And here we are--me in my new rain gear and BC, who is obviously sure enough of his masculinity to carry my Vera Bradley all over the U.K.  Good job, Sweetie.

We've climbed from the beach through this lush forest, and are at the highest point of our journey.  As we rounded the last corner--with just the slightest amount of hard breathing, we met an entire pack of young (grade school aged) scouts, learning about plants, leaves, birds, stones...it didn't matter what. They were just ecstatic to be here today instead of in their classroom.

We've gobbled up our lunches, and are unloading from our short drive to begin boarding the steamship, Sir Walter Scott.  One of the very nice perks of a tour is that no matter how long the line may be, we go to the front.  Some days I feel rather badly about that, but most days I don't. I simply remember Queen Victoria and take it as my due.

Sir Walter Scott will escort us around Loch Katrine.  I think she will be equally as scenic as Loch Lomond, but we'll have an hour or so to view it from different angles.  Loch Katrine serves a number of purposes:  Besides simply being there in all her beauty, Katrine has been poked and prodded, deepened, plumbed and extensively engineered (rather like an aging screen actress) in order to serve as a reservoir for Glasgow's water supply.  I'm most impressed by all of this work when I realize it was done well over a hundred and fifty years ago.  The Sir Walter Scott itself, a steamboat, has been remodeled to burn bio-diesel instead of oil.  All the better to keep the Loch (and Glasgow's drinking water) as pristine as possible.

Historically speaking, Rob Roy MacGregor was born near the head (or north end) of Loch Katrine.  I had always heard of him, but never had details.  He and his father joined the Jacobite uprising, but when that effort faltered, his father was jailed and Rob Roy was always viewed a bit askance as an outlaw.

There is probably more fiction than fact about Rob Roy, but his life style is definitely the stuff of which movies are made.  My favorite line was that Rob Roy was a "cattle lifter." Back in Kansas, his sort would be called cattle rustlers and shot on sight.  The term "cattle lifter" just struck me as being veddy veddy British.

One of the few islands in Loch Katrine.  I would take a guess as to which one, but that would be very foolish.  We sat at the front of the boat out in the open, cutting the wind for all those behind.  I thought I would freeze to death, but Bruce was very into this whole adventure and so I stayed by his side.  It was miserable but, as you can see, very beautiful.  Especially for us Arizonians whose landscaping is covered with 3/4" granite stone in a variety of earth tones.

Thus endeth this beautiful journey to England, Scotland and Wales.  I wouldn't trade a minute of it for anything else.  The group we traveled with were wonderful, our leaders were outstanding, the organization was perfect and I would do it again in a heartbeat.   Thank you for letting me relive this most wonderful of vacations.

HUNTINGTOWER CASTLE & SCONE PALACE

This is our second-to-last day of Quintessential Britain, and we will visit Huntingtower Castle and Scone Palace, both of which are located near Perth--about a short hour's drive from Edinburgh.

Huntingtower Castle dates from the era in which a castle was a castle. A fortification more than a home. Utilitarian more than comfortable.  In the 1500s, Huntingtower was the home of the Ruthven family.  Our story begins when the 4th Lord Ruthven and his cohorts became involved in a plot to kidnap King James VI, son of Mary, Queen of Scots.  Their plan was to gain power by controlling the King.  However, King James escaped, and soon forgave Lord Ruthven.  Lord Ruthven--perhaps not the brightest Lord of the Peerage--soon gathered some friends and attempted to overthrow James yet again.  That failed, and this time Lord Ruthven was executed and Huntingtower was seized by the crown.

A few years later the castle and lands were given back to the Ruthven family who (as hard as this may be to believe) were caught up in yet another plot to kill King James.  This time the King executed the two Ruthven brothers involved, seized their estate and abolished the name of Ruthven altogether. Thus, the House of Ruthven became Huntingtower Castle.

The castle itself is very stark, both inside and out, but interesting.  The ceilings are wood and some of the paintings and decorations have survived the centuries.  Unfortunately, the electric lights are few, the windows are high and small, making the rooms very dim.

Besides the tense relationship with King James VI, our guide told of the love story between a daughter of an earlier Ruthven Lord and a servant of the household.  Per the tale, the two met often in the servants' quarters in the eastern tower, while the family occupied the western tower.  (At that time, the castle consisted of two separate towers connected by a bridge). One evening, as the mother crossed the bridge between the towers--suspecting daughter/servant hanky-panky--said daughter, tipped off by some kind soul, and possessing amazing athletic skills, leaped several meters from the servants' tower to the family tower, and raced to her bed where she was later found safe and sound, with Mom none the wiser.  Daughter and servant eloped the next day and we hope...we don't know, as no records exist...that they lived happily ever after

.

If you should visit Huntingtower, do allow enough time to read the many signs around the interior of the castle. They are fascinating, full of history--scandalous and otherwise, and tie-in now and then with Scone Palace, our next stop on this day.

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After a relatively short drive, we arrive at Scone Palace--described as Georgian-Gothic. Scone Palace was originally an Augustinian Abbey, but during the Scottish Reformation, was badly damaged thanks to a mob whipped up (and, some say led by, John Knox himself).  Subsequently, it became a secular home inhabited by a family named Mansfield.  Over the centuries, the palace has been enlarged, remodeled, updated and beautified.

The grounds of Scone Palace are exceptional, and worth the trip all by themselves.  They are open to the public and include this immense Douglas Fir...the seeds for which came from the United States (Columbia River area) in 1826.  It's a beauty!  We spent an hour wandering in the park-like area, and still felt rushed.  Had it not been for rain and mud, we would have visited the diamond-shaped maze created from two types of beech plantings...a good reason to visit again!

Scone (the area) rates Quintessential billing as it has been the crowning-place of the Kings of Scots since the 800's.  Yes--the 800's...it's not a typo. Parliaments resided here, laws were made, treaties ratified, and lesser rulers promised their fealty.

There exists a Stone of Scone upon which, or over which, the monarchs of Scotland, England and the United Kingdom, for centuries, have been crowned.  The Stone of Scone is the making of a coronation.  It was last used in 1953 when Queen Elizabeth II was crowned.  I love looking at those pictures...she was so young.

If you love legends, you will love the Stone of Scone.  Some say the stone originated in Tara, the coronation place of Ireland, but then again the stone itself matches that quarried near Scone.

Was the Stone of Scone that was captured by Edward I and taken to England in 1296 the authentic Stone of Scone, or is the Stone of Scone buried in the silt at the bottom of the River Tay, deposited there for safekeeping by monks from Scone Abbey?

And the Stone of Scone that England returned to Scotland in 1996?  Is it really the same stone stolen from Westminster Abbey by four Scottish students (1990) which, in its journey to Scotland was broken in two and buried in a field before its arrival in Scotland; only to be returned to Westminster months later when the London police discovered its whereabouts?  Or, is it a copy?

Well, I don't know, but it's a great story and I'm all about stories.  And, tradition.  And, England, Scotland and Wales.  I have no favorites.  I love them all, and I'm sad that our trip is coming to an end.    

AN ABBREVIATED TOUR OF EDINBURGH

We have arrived in Edinburgh on the cusp of the Edinburgh International Festival, a three week celebration of the arts that takes place in various theatres, concert halls, and smaller venues around the city.  All is in preparation, and Edinburgh will look her best on opening day...at least if the two persons working on this display have anything to say about it.

Yes...he is seeking perfection flower by flower, and it is gorgeous.  At this point in time the gardeners are replacing flowers beyond their prime, and plucking droopy petals that have seen better days.

  

I know that pipers are ubiquitous at any time of year in Edinburgh--or Scotland, for that matter--but perhaps a bit more so when Festival-goers are pouring in.

Our day began with a guided tour of Edinburgh--led by a delightful young lady who commutes 30-45 minutes into the city each day to do what she loves best.  And, she's good at it.  I'm not even going to try to remember every historical building and tale that she told, But, I will remember the skies--very cloudy, partly cloudy, sunny...and then back again.  I'll remember the elaborate and beautiful carvings that set each building apart from the next. And I'll definitely remember the hustle and bustle as we ended our formal tour near the beginning of the Royal Mile, where all was in preparation at Edinburgh Castle for next week's Royal Military Edinburgh Tattoo.  The Tattoo is a definite Bucket List item...

We did get this close--the Castle esplanade where the ceremony will take place.  Over 200,000 people attend the Tattoo each year during its run, with about a third of them from outside the UK. You can see a portion of the grandstand to the left of the photo.  Whereas, there are drums and pipes and fifes galore on the esplanade during the Tattoo, what I remember most from the TV version I saw years ago, was the spotlighted lone piper standing on the high wall of the castle. The esplanade was completely dark, as he began piping "Amazing Grace" note by mournful note.  Nothing can touch your heart like a bagpipe.  I sat in my living room, tears running down my face...I can't imagine the emotion I'd feel being right here.

There is, in addition to the Edinburgh International Festival, the Edinburgh Festival Fringe--a sassy, slightly irreverent, and non-curated accompaniment to the more staid Festival itself.  According to its web-site, anyone can participate in the Fringe Festival.  There is, quite proudly, no vetting.  If you can find a venue that will accept you and whatever you might offer, you're in.  Most egalitarian.  If not a wee bit naughty...

On a slightly different note...but, perhaps, no less touristy, welcome to the industry known as Greyfriars Bobby. We didn't have an opportunity to go into the pub, but we did meet the sweet little guy.  You may remember the story...

Greyfriars Bobby was the sweet little Skye Terrier whose owner, John Gray, died.  I don't know if it was a sudden death, or whether John lingered.  What I do know is that Bobby was devastated and spent the last fourteen years of his life lying on or beside John Gray's grave in Greyfriars Kirkyard. And today, is buried not far from his owner.  (Or guardian, as we would say today.)

It is also very sweet that even today, nearly 150 years after the fact, people leave little items for Greyfriars Bobby very near his grave.  Thus, the shoe for chewing and the sticks for chasing.  I so hope he enjoys them up there in his little doggy heaven.  Or, hopefully, in regular heaven.

And, now we've come to Deacon Brodie's Tavern, which was packed to the rafters during our late-ish lunch. There is (as you might guess) a tale about Deacon Brodie--namely, that he is the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson's "The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde."  To wit: Deacon Brodie was a highly respected businessman in Edinburgh in the mid-1700s.  He was a cabinet-maker, and because of his stellar reputation gained entry to many of the richest households in the city. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to anyone, he also had five mistresses, a number of children and a nasty gambling habit.  Mr. Brodie was in need of money.  A lot of money.

To that end, Deacon Brodie, when building cabinets in someone's home, made wax molds of the locks  he happened across.  He then made keys to fit those locks, and when the timing was right, let himself in, opened said locks, and stole money and treasures.  Not a lot--just enough to satisfy his needs and maybe a bit more.  Thus the sign above.  Sadly, Deacon Brodie was hanged for his sins with 40,000 people in attendance.  I find it highly unlikely that 40,000 people actually attended that event, but no more unlikely  than the additional story which suggests that he might have survived the hanging due to a deal he cut with the hangman himself.

Oh--the Jeckyll and Hyde tie-in.  Robert Louis Stevenson was apparently fascinated with the story of Brodie, who was such a good and respectable man, but deep down, scoundrel. A real scoundrel. 

And that was our first day in Edinburgh.